


Stand and Deliver!

by Caeseria



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bandits & Outlaws, Eventual Smut, Highwayman Victor Nikiforov, Highwaymen, Kissing, M/M, Revenge, Robbery, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-06-15 07:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15408096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeseria/pseuds/Caeseria
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki is on his way back from London when his carriage is robbed by the notorious highwayman, Swift Nik.  At first, it appears to be mere chance and a degree of bad luck, but Yuuri clearly hasn't dealt with a highwayman in the throes of lust at first sight.A convoluted story of desire, revenge, and one-upmanship (with the occasional bit of nice scenery thrown in for good measure).





	1. A Robbery is Committed!

WANTED  
The Gentleman Highwayman  
SWIFT NIK  
& his accomplice Black Jack  
Known to ride between Hertfordshire, Essex & Suffolk  
Masked & Well-Dressed  
Seen armed with pistols, blunderbuss and sword  
& hath robbed many Gentlefolk of substantial means and influence  
50 GUINEAS REWARD  
Come forward with information leading to his arrest

 

 

 

**December 1786**

Victor Nikiforov has never considered himself a particularly religious man and, if he’s going to be honest, he still doesn’t.  There’s no point praying to a higher being when a man is perfectly capable of fixing his own problems himself.

Then again, this is one problem Victor’s not sure he’s going to be able to work his way free of.

Today, Victor Nikiforov, known to the general public and scum of the earth as Swift Nik, the Gentleman Highwayman, will dance the Tyburn jig with the three-legged horse.   Only the English, damn them to hell, with all their idioms and complicated patterns of language, could invent such a phrase for a hanging and think it amusing. 

In reality, Victor would rather be dancing with his love, Yuuri, instead of swinging from the gallows. 

 _Yuuri_.  Victor wonders where he is now.  Is he lost in the crowd, watching, or has he chosen not to come, not to watch his lover die?  Perhaps he’s getting help, and here, at the last minute –

Victor cuts off that train of thought rapidly.  He won’t spend his last moments hoping for Yuuri to pull off something ridiculous like a rescue; that’s the stuff of fairy tales.  No, all he can do now is bury his real self inside his persona as Swift Nik, to shove _Victor Nikiforov_ , who nobody knows, deep inside, and make a show of it.  Give the audience what they want.

And the audience wants him; that much is clear.  As he stands beneath the ladder that leads to the noose, he can hear the crowd roar.  There must be thousands of them; some of them sitting in specially constructed stands, but the majority fight and jockey for position, spread out around the village of Tyburn.  They all want to watch him swing, every single one of them.

Victor rests his bound hands on one of the ladder rungs in front of him, and looks up, watching the noose sway gently in the morning breeze.  It moves almost hypnotically from side to side, and Victor shakes his head.  The time for reflection is over; now it’s down to business.

The crowd quietens down into murmurs as Victor starts to climb the ladder.  He can feel himself shaking, but he won’t give in to it.  He refuses to let his nerves show.  This rabble of thousands doesn’t deserve to see him falter, to fail during his last performance.  He’ll give them this last dance, but they won’t get his insecurities, his worry for his lover.  As his last moments tick by, Victor wishes he knew what had happened to Yuuri that moonlight night Victor was captured.  That no single person has been able to tell him worries Victor, but at the same time, it gives him hope that Yuuri got free and is now far from London.  If he’s smart, that’s what Yuuri will have done. Jack would have seen to that, he’s sure.

He reaches level with the noose and, without pausing, slides the hemp rope over his neck.  It’s slow going; the noose barely fits, and Victor wants to make sure it’s on properly, because when he jumps, he doesn’t want to spend minutes strangling to death.  The surgeon at the gaol (for a hefty fee) had explained the best way to place the rope, to ensure a quick, long drop that would result in an instant break to the neck.  No pain, no twisting on the rope.  Just a fast, clean death.  Victor considers the kind doctor’s fee well worth the price.

The crowd is now silent, and Victor deems it the perfect moment.  He forms a picture of Yuuri in his head; his lover is laughing, mostly naked with his hair tousled, spread across the pillow of their bed.  Debauched and beautiful. 

And with an answering smile on his lips, Victor steps off the ladder, and into history.

 

* * *

 

**April 1786 [Nine months earlier]**

Victor takes a sip out his tankard of beer and tries not to gag over the taste.  The English have a piss-poor idea of what constitutes alcohol; the gin is even worse, and Victor’s tried that only once.  The tap room of the Saracens’ Head in Barking is full of the dregs of society, along with a mixture of the gentry travelling to and from London.  It’s a strange melting pot, but typical of the type of popular coaching inn Victor and Chris frequent; busy enough for them to blend in, but not enough to lose sight of who might make for a good business proposition.

Being a highwayman isn’t easy.  The popular press would have it as a romantic gig, full of blazing guns and bags of gold, repleat with clever, sassy commentary and fast rides across country.  The reality is much different: long and careful hours seeking out the next victim, knowing when to back away from something that looks like a sure bet but probably isn’t.  It’s always a gamble, preying on those weaker than yourself, because sometimes that weaker creature bites back in self defence.  Victor’s known many highwaymen who fell to lesser men (and women), those who misjudged their moment and met the business end of a well-defended stagecoach and a couple of men wielding blunderbusses.  Victor saw the results of that up close once, and the mess left behind afterward. It was hard to tell what once might have a been a horse and what had originally been its rider. It’s not something he’s ever going to forget in this lifetime.

No, he and Chris might be the stuff of legend, but that’s because they play it safe.  They bide their time, plan carefully, and never deviate in the execution of a plan.  To the majority of the country, he is simply known as Swift Nik, the Gentleman Highwayman, and Chris has managed to successfully bastardize his surname enough to become Jack – Black Jack – a true English mangling of his surname, Giacometti.  In private, between themselves, they’ll always be Victor and Chris, but the world doesn’t need to know that.

Victor’s musings are brought up short by the arrival of two young men, entering the tap room from the better part of the coaching inn.  Both are dressed frugally but well, their coats well cut and tailored, although plain.  The fabric looks decent, and the older of the two sports a pair of shiny new leather boots.  Victor’s so used to figuring out the monetary value of a mark at first glance that he fails to search the young men’s faces, until they are almost out of view. 

Victor’s breath actually catches in his throat when he lays eyes on the one closest to him.  He’s not much older than the other, but he looks a little more mature with wide, expressive eyes and short black hair that’s tousled, almost messy, like he just climbed out of bed.  He looks a little lost, gaze darting from side to side, not really fixing on any one person or thing, and his Adam’s apple bobs anxiously as he licks his lips.

And Victor’s first thought is: _this man is beautiful_. 

Victor dearly wants to bite on those lips, nibble at them, kiss away the man’s nervousness.  It’s quite unlike anything he’s thought about before, and it’s a little startling if he’s honest.

Chris plonks himself down next to Victor, slamming his tankard down hard enough that some of it splashes on the worn wood of the tabletop.  “See something promising?” Chris asks with a raised eyebrow.

“The most beautiful boy ever,” Victor replies, only tearing his eyes off the man when he and his friend sit down at one of the far tables and disappear from Victor’s view.

“Victor,” Chris starts. “Are we discussing your love life or our next mark?”

“Both maybe,” Victor replies with a grin.  “I think I’m in love, Chris!”

“God help me,” Chris mutters. 

“Did you see his face? His lips.  So kissable.  Eyes like pools of liquid… something. Chris, his thighs were to die for, especially in those boots.  He could crush me with those thighs and I’d probably ask him to do it again.”  Victor sighs dramatically, partly because he means every word and partly because he knows it’s going to infuriate Chris.

“Victor.”  Chris pauses.  “We are wasting precious coin here tonight in an attempt to pin down our next _performance_ , and you are waxing poetic over a boy.  Priorities.”

Victor attempts to clear his head, it only managed with a second swig of his beer.  “Urgh,” he says, pushing the tankard away.  “Okay, so priorities.  We’re short of cash and need to secure a job fast. Preferably within the next day or so or we will be sleeping in hedgerows again until we reach home.  Yes?”

“Yes,” Chris confirms.  “We should keep close to London this time and not go jaunting off over the countryside.”  Chris plasters a shit-eating grin on his face.  “And, as it turns out, this is your lucky day.  Fancy a quick jaunt through Epping tomorrow?”

“Epping? Why?”

“It so turns out that, while you were admiring your beautiful boy, I was talking with one of the stable hands and – “

“ _Talking_?” Victor asks sweetly.

“Talking,” Chris replies firmly, but he can’t actually make eye contact with Victor while he says it.  Victor knows a sure bet when he sees it, and he’ll bet his horse that Chris has had his cock down some stable hand’s throat in the last twenty minutes.

“Anyway,” Chris continues, “your boy happens to be on his way home to daddy tomorrow and is probably carrying a fair amount of cash.  He’s well enough off to have a manservant.”

“I’m not sure,” Victor muses.  He pushes away the delicious thought of chasing his quarry half way across the eastern counties and puts his business mind to work instead.  “He’s well dressed, but on a budget.  This isn’t some lordling throwing money around to attract a bride or groom.  He’s either a second son or the heir to minor gentry.  As much as I’d love to go after him, I’m not sure it’s worth our while.”

“Hmm. You think he’s probably banked his cash in London already?”

“Absolutely.  It’s what I’d do,” Victor says seriously.  “No, as much as I want to, it’s probably not worth the effort. I hate to say it, but we should find a wealthier mark.”

Chris swallows a decent mouthful of his beer and sits back, leaning on one arm on the table and shooting Victor a knowing look.  “So, ignoring that, we’ll go after Beautiful Boy tomorrow then? Maybe see if we can catch up with him on the edges of Epping Forest and you can find out if he’s worth your while?”

“Chris!” Victor exclaims. “You are the best friend ever. A true mind reader. A paragon of –“

“Cork it, Niliforv,” Chris deadpans and Victor grins, raising his tankard in a toast. Chris only butchers his name fondly when he’s letting Victor get away with something he shouldn’t. “We need to be up bright and early tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes.” Victor puts the tankard back on the table.  “And do thank your stable hand, he’s been most useful.” 

Chris winks at Victor and grins.  “Oh, I always do, mon cher. Good night.”

“See you later.”  Victor stands up and then heads across the room toward the entrance to the lodgings.  He’s oh-so tempted to glance to the side, to see if he can catch a glimpse of his quarry, but he knows he can’t in case he draws attention to himself.

He’ll have to wait until tomorrow instead, more’s the pity.

* * *

 

Victor’s up with the dawn, lounging indolently against one of the posts just outside of the stables.  From this vantage he’s well hidden, lost in the crowd of departing guests, but still able to observe the comings and goings of most of the throng.  He watches as a struggling manservant pushes his fat master into one of the better stagecoaches, while two or three other passengers stand around waiting their turn to board, luggage strewn to the side in a haphazard heap.  There’s a number of private carriages in the yard as well, one belonging to the Duke of Cavendish, but Victor’s already decided it wouldn’t be worth the effort to stop the coach, not with the amount of armory the Duke’s manservants are carrying. 

No, Victor’s after a glimpse of Beautiful Boy and his friend.  He’s exchanged some coin with a few of his contacts at the inn and managed to procure a little more information about his quarry; namely that he’s on his way home to his father’s estate after concluding business in London with his banker.  It’s what he and Chris had already concluded; however, Victor’s cash has also procured a little more information.  Beautiful Boy is actually Katsuki Yuuri, son of minor gentry with an estate just outside of Broad Oak.  They’re a well-off family, well-liked locally, but nothing out of the ordinary.  The elder daughter is to be married away shortly, while Yuuri will inherit eventually.  Beautiful Boy’s friend is Phichit Chulanont, Yuuri’s closest friend who lives a couple of estates away.  He’s already left this morning on an earlier coach, having met up with Yuuri last night as they passed on business; Yuuri for his estate and Phichit into London town on his own.

It’s perfect; Yuuri will be with only his manservant, and, unable to procure one of the more expensive and faster stagecoaches, will instead be taking another, later coach.  Victor does some quick calculations in his head; it’s just over ten miles to Loughton, on the outskirts of Epping, and Victor knows just a place a few miles beyond it to stop Yuuri’s coach.  Victor spent an hour this morning sawing partway through the tracings on the tack belonging to the coach; he reckons they’ll give half way through the journey, delaying Yuuri’s coach further while they are repaired.  If everything goes according to plan, Yuuri’s coach will be well behind schedule and only just clearing the deep woods at the edge of Epping around dusk, the perfect time to stop the coach.  The horses will be skittish and hard to control after the incident with the tack, and the driver will be tired, probably not paying as much attention as he should.

Victor’s musings are interrupted by a yawning Chris, who’s trying to cross the busy courtyard, tricorne hat pulled down low so nobody can see his features.  It rained earlier, and the ground is littered with puddles, which Chris tries in vain to avoid.  The press of people departing is suffocating, and Chris looks displeased, his shoulders hunched in.

“Morning,” Victor says in a chipper tone.

“Fuck off,” Chris replies succinctly.  “Any word on Beautiful Boy?”

“Just about to depart,” Victor replies.  He spots Yuuri pushing his way through the same crowds as Chris had, aiming for the far edge where his coach awaits.  It’s much more compact than the public transport stagecoaches, designed for maybe four passengers at most.  His manservant – a young boy with a streak of red hair – trots behind him, glancing around with wide eyes at the pandemonium in the courtyard. Victor watches as Yuuri stops, waiting for his servant to catch up, talking to the boy before shooing him toward the carriage.  Victor admires Yuuri anew in the morning light; he’s dressed in a waistcoat and a matching dark blue coat that reaches to mid-thigh, although he seems to be foregoing a cloak due to the mild spring weather.  He carries his tricorne hat in one hand, tapping it against his thigh as he waits for his manservant.  Victor still hasn’t revised his statement of last night; he wants Yuuri to step on him in those boots, oh god.

“Victor stop drooling,” Chris says knowingly.

“I can’t help it, I’m thirsty for Beautiful Boy.”

“You are _parched_ , man, get a grip.”  He whacks Victor on the shoulder.  “We should get going.  If you want to make our date with that coach, it won’t do to be seen trailing it.  We need to get far ahead of it, and soon.”

Victor pushes himself off the post he’s been leaning against.  “Right as always, Chris.  Let’s go perform, shall we?”


	2. Moonlight Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Englishness is showing. This is so much fun to write! ;)
> 
> Many thanks to my fabulous beta, Svana-Vrika! <3

Sunlight filters dimly through the majestic stands of beech and oak that make up the far edges of Epping Forest.  It will be dusk in a matter of an hour, and Yuuri’s stagecoach is already far behind schedule due to a broken tracing on one of the horses’ harnesses.  The driver had managed to cobble it back together on the side of the road, but the lead horse is jumpy and nervous now, and the driver has to fight to keep the team of four together without chaos breaking out.

The carriage jolts over another pothole, and Yuuri’s foreboding ratchets up another notch, making his breath come fast and tight in his throat as he grips at the velvet strap nearest to him.  This journey has been a disaster from the word go; this morning he’d been unable to secure a seat on one of the better protected stagecoaches out of London and instead, had been forced to take a secondary option.  The driver is competent and game, but even his apparently endless reserves of patience seem to have finally run out.  The driver’s racing the horses hard, as if he senses something off, some kind of second sense that things are not right in the order of the world. Yuuri hears the driver urging the horses on; the snap of the reins and the whip, the clatter of hooves on the hardpacked dirt of the road, the deafening sound of the carriage itself, hard on its springs.   Yuuri won’t be surprised if they break a wheel at this rate.

Yuuri’s new manservant Minami hasn’t stopped chattering the whole way back from London; it’s his first real outing to the city and, for some reason, he feels the need to punctuate the entire journey with his observations, but Yuuri doesn’t have the heart to tell him to quieten down.  In a way, his endless chatter has become a sort of soothing backdrop, distracting enough to keep Yuuri’s foreboding to a manageable level.

The sun dips below the tree line and the dusk thickens, the light changing to something otherworldly, almost magical.  Yuuri glances out of the window trying to place himself in the landscape.  Epping Forest is tricky and dangerous, and crime these days is at an all-time high.  Just because they are hours out of London doesn’t mean they are any safer; quite the opposite.  This isn’t the Great North Road or Hampstead Heath, where the highway is patrolled by soldiers and lit to prevent crime.  This is the forest, deep, dark, and untamed at the best of times.  This part of the countryside is riddled with secret ways and tracks, the domain of smugglers and those that help move the contraband from the coast and unseen into London, using a circuitous series of routes designed to confuse the King’s Guard.  Legend still holds sway here, side by side with superstition, the old ways walking hand in hand with modern times.

Yuuri can feel the coach slowing a little as they emerge from the forest onto one of the small heaths that nestle within the woods.  It’s not much; merely a clearing between the trees, but it’s enough to offer space on either side of the road – just enough for an ambush, Yuuri realizes.

Yuuri hears the sound of galloping hooves coming up behind them before he sees the dark flash of a rider pass the carriage; cloak flowing out behind him.  The shadow is anonymous; masked, his hair covered by a tricorne hat.  The shock appearance of this rider, miles from where one should be, is enough to momentarily stop Minami’s endless commentary.

“Stay where you are,” Yuuri says to Minami, gesturing to the middle of the seat, “and don’t move, no matter what happens.”

Despite his better judgement, Yuuri slides to the window and risks a glance out into the waning twilight.  To the front, he can just make out another rider, dressed similarly, but at rest on the edge of the grass verge.  He’s pointing two pistols at the front of the coach.

 _Shit_ , Yuuri thinks. _Highwaymen_. It’s every traveler’s worst fear made manifest.

“Hold!” A shout comes from the rider at the front.  He clearly means business; his tone brooks no argument as the coach starts to slow, heeding the man’s direction.

Yuuri pulls away from the window, fingers gripping achingly tight against the leather of the seat.  He can’t make out what the rider is saying, but it’s clear the driver of the coach is not amused by the muffled reply.  _Foolhardy_ , Yuuri thinks, _to be smart-talking a man that’s armed on horseback with pistols pointed at your chest._   He can feel the prickle of nervous sweat at the small of his back.  These sorts of things never go well; no matter how the popular press likes to romanticize it.  These men are cut-throats, murderers with no conscience.  Yuuri, Minami and the driver might all end up dead simply for the handful of guineas Yuuri carries.

“Hold I said!” the rider calls again in a deep baritone, and the coach lurches to a final stop.  One of the horses lets out a nervous snort, loud in the twilight air, and the coach shifts a little as the horses’ jostle and settle.

A figure on horseback suddenly appears at the window, leaning down to Yuuri’s eyelevel.  Yuuri is faced with two startling things in quick succession; one, a pair of the most incredibly blue eyes Yuuri has ever seen, and two, the business end of a cavalry pistol, now pointed in his direction.  At least it’s not a blunderbuss.

“Stand and deliver,” the highwayman demands.  He cocks his head to the side, as if taking closer note of Yuuri.  “Your money or your life, sweetheart.  What’ll it be?”

Yuuri swears he can tell the man is grinning beneath the black cloth that covers the lower half of his face, and it makes Yuuri’s blood boil.  He lets out a small huff of annoyance, despite his peril.  “You aren’t leaving me much in the way of a choice, are you?” he bites out. 

“My, my,” the man says, and now Yuuri can tell he’s amused, despite the slight accent that Yuuri can hear. “Such fire, my _lord_ , for one who appears so mild-mannered.  Maybe I’m underestimating my quarry?”  His eyes narrow, and then he glances past Yuuri into the coach.  “This is your manservant?”

In the background, Minami makes a squeaking sound that could be interpreted two ways; either fear, or more likely, a case of extreme excitement coupled with some internal flailing.  “Yuuri is going to kick your ass,” Minami exclaims, pointing at the highwayman. “And then he’ll see you hang at Tyburn!”

“Minami, be quiet,” Yuuri hisses.  “This is no time for frivolity.” 

Yuuri needs to remain calm.  A healthy dose of fear mingles with apprehension inside of him, adrenaline pulsing through his system, much like a few too many glasses of wine.  This is not only his life in danger, there is also that of his manservant to consider.  The highwayman and his accomplice will be looking for cash and jewels; anything easy to dispose of.  The problem is, Yuuri went to London specifically to bank the estate profits for his father, and he barely has more than a couple of guineas spending money left on him at the moment. 

The phrase _your money or your life_ suddenly seems a lot more sinister than it has done in the past.

 “Oh?” the man raises an eyebrow. “Cat got your tongue suddenly? Nothing to say?”  He gestures with the cavalry pistol; the signal is unmistakable.  “Let’s have you down from the carriage, my lord.  And your servant as well.” 

In a pretty feat of horsemanship, the highwayman urges his mount backward, so that he can swing the carriage door open.  He doesn’t take the gun off Yuuri for a second, and if Yuuri wasn’t in mortal danger he might be impressed.  Yuuri, for his part, doesn’t take his eyes off the highwayman either.  This man radiates a frisson of tight danger, and Yuuri doesn’t trust him for a moment.  He slides gracefully from the seat, standing to his full height in the doorway before raising an eyebrow at the highwayman.

The man laughs; it’s a joyous laugh, one full of delight, and it sends a shiver of some answering thrill to Yuuri’s core, something he’ll have to examine later when he’s not in the middle of a life or death situation.  As it is, he waits, and his highwayman dismounts in a flourish from his saddle.  His horse appears to be well-trained and simply stands still once the man has released the reins.  “Jack!” the highwayman calls out to his counterpart, who is probably still keeping watch on the coach driver.  “I’ll need five minutes.”

Keeping an eye – and his pistol – on Yuuri, the highwayman releases the carriage steps and bows mockingly while Yuuri descends to the ground, followed hurriedly by Minami, who immediately scrambles to place himself in front of Yuuri.  As well-meaning as the gesture is (and futile) Yuuri gently places a hand on Minami’s arm and pushes him behind him, out of immediate danger.

Yuuri, for his part, in what his friend Phichit might term it colloquially, is almost having kittens.  It stands to reason that the man currently pointing a gun at him must be Swift Nik, infamous gentleman highwayman and a complete scoundrel to boot.  Liberator of both purses and reputation, silver-tongued and silver-haired, subject of many a raunchy pamphlet and the occasional cheap novelette, darling of the press and hero of the common people.  Yuuri should know; he’s been following Nik’s career for a decade, a dirty secret only Phichit is aware of.  And if this is Swift Nik himself, not only is Yuuri being robbed at gunpoint by the man of his (extremely racy) nighttime fantasies, this means the man with his pistol trained on the driver of the coach is actually Black Jack, Nik’s long-term friend, accomplice and holder of an even more racy reputation all the way from the fashionable continent.

If this is true, Yuuri’s completed fucked, because these men have never botched a single job.  Their planning is impeccable, and they only ever act on a sure bet, which means that unbeknownst to Yuuri, they’d been watching him, probably since he left London and spent last night at the Saracen’s Head. The thought makes Yuuri angry – angry mostly at himself because he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, assuming that his position in life was more than enough to protect him.  In fact, Yuuri’s completely out of his depth, his emotions seesawing between irritation and anger to the complete opposite; a sort of tight excitement mixed with dangerous anticipation.  It’s a heady cocktail of emotion Yuuri would rather not be dealing with at the moment.

No, Yuuri is totally fucked, and probably not going to enjoy the experience. On the other hand, Phichit is going to absolutely _love_ this if Yuuri actually survives to tell the tale.

“Time to hand over your valuables, my lord,” Swift Nik says.  “Quickly now.”

“You know I have nothing on me, if you’ve marked me since last night,” Yuuri snaps, the anger winning out for the moment. “You’ll already know I banked what I had in London.”

Swift Nik steps forward, until he’s uncomfortably close to Yuuri.  Behind him, Minami lets out another squeak, but fortunately offers nothing more in the way of commentary. 

“You must have something of value on you,” Nik says with a frown. 

“Nik! Get a move on!” Jack calls from the front of the carriage. 

“Okay, we’ll try this another way.” The thoughtful look Nik levels Yuuri with makes him uncomfortable.  He raises the pistol over Yuuri’s shoulder, and past him.  It takes Yuuri a precious few seconds to understand that he’s pointing it at Minami instead.

“Wait – no!” Yuuri exclaims, stepping in front of the pistol before he can think about it, his hands raised. “Surely we can come to an arrangement!”

“As I said: your money or your – actually, in this case – _his_ life,” Nik says, stepping close enough that Yuuri can almost feel the man’s body heat beneath his cloak. Yuuri can feel the weight of the pistol press just under the soft skin below his ear; a warning and maybe a promise.  For a moment, Yuuri imagines the pistol going off, what it might feel like in that split-second of death.  Would he feel the pain, or would there simply be…nothing?

Nik nudges the pistol forward a little, a reminder to Yuuri.  “What’ll it be, sweetheart?”

“I have a few guineas, that is all,” Yuuri replies in a rush.  “Please… I have nothing else to offer you.”  He makes the mistake of looking up and meeting Nik’s gaze.  To say the look Nik gives him is enough to freeze him in place would be an understatement; Yuuri feels a little like his soul is being stripped bare by the hunger he sees in those eyes momentarily, before Nik’s expression becomes shuttered again, his eyes half-lidded in speculation.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that you have _nothing_ to offer,” Nik teases, the tone at odds to the promise of the pistol against Yuuri’s neck. “How about a deal? One gentleman to another?”

“You’re a _highwayman_ ,” Yuuri exclaims thoughtlessly.  “You have no more honor than… than… a dog in the street.” It takes Yuuri a full second or two to realize what he’s just said; that he’s not only offended a murderer and cut-purse, but that he’s probably just sealed the fate of both himself and his manservant.

 “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Nik says, voice tight with what is probably anger.  He pushes the gun forward and Yuuri takes a step backward.  “Last chance, my lord.”

Yuuri closes his eyes for a split second, then opens them.  He knows he’s going to do whatever Nik wants of him, and Nik knows it too.  “Name your price,” Yuuri grits out, ignoring Minami’s quiet protest in the background.

Nik pauses for a moment, as if for effect.  “A kiss in exchange for your manservant’s life,” he says.

“ _What_?” Yuuri takes another step backward, until he can feel the hard press of one of the coach wheels against his back.  “Are you insane?”

“Is your virtue that hard won that you won’t even consider it, my lord?” Nik cocks his head to the side, clearly amused.  “It’s just a kiss.”

“You want a kiss from _me_?” Yuuri can’t seem to wrap his head around the demand. The part of him that reads the cheap evening paper, that searches for any mention of Swift Nik, wants to throw himself body and soul at the man.  The other part of him, the sober, every day heir to his father’s small estate, wants to take immediate offence.

“Well, you have nothing else to give me, apparently. I’ll take what you have, instead.” Nik shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter, but he does cock his pistol.  The noise is loud and jarring so close to Yuuri’s ear; it carries in the nighttime air, a threat of violence.

“I’ll do it.” Yuuri swallows, feels the press of the pistol against his skin.  “I’ll give you a kiss in exchange for Minami’s life.”

Nik appears to grin beneath the mask, and lowers the pistol enough that Yuuri’s not able to feel it any longer.  Before Yuuri can allow himself to panic, he darts forward, enough to brush his lips against the soft fabric of Nik’s mask, pulling back immediately.  “There. Now release my manservant,” he says breathlessly.

Nik looks a little stunned for a moment, and then laughs, which makes Yuuri immediately take offence.

“Sweetheart, you are going to have to do _much_ better than that,” Nik purrs, pressing forward, sliding a thigh between Yuuri’s legs, until Yuuri can feel the hard press of his lean body against his.  Yuuri’s not sure what to do, how to react, so he brings his hands up, bunching them in Nik’s waistcoat.  Even he’s not sure if he’s trying to push him away or pull him closer.  “Close your eyes,” Nik commands, and Yuuri stares hard into Nik’s eyes for a second, maybe searching for reassurance, and then lets them slide shut. 

Anticipation and fear war within him; Yuuri feels like he’s no longer on solid ground.  He feels a gloved hand against his cheek, gentle, that slides to the back of his neck, followed by the press of bare lips against his, playful.  Yuuri goes rigid and lets out a quiet gasp.  Nik takes advantage of Yuuri’s reaction, fingers tightening in Yuuri’s hair, tilting his head just so.  The next kiss is surer, with a tease of tongue that has Yuuri parting his lips in response. Nik takes advantage of Yuuri’s moment of weakness, pressing forward with his body until Yuuri’s pinned hard against the carriage wheel behind him, bodies flush together.  Yuuri’s heart rate rockets and he lets out a noise he’s never made before; part desire, part protest.  His fingers ache from the way he’s fisting them in Nik’s waistcoat, but Nik is determined to coax a proper reaction out of Yuuri maybe, because he deepens the kiss, sweeping past Yuuri’s defences with ease.  Yuuri has a brief moment of guilt and then surrenders; lets Nik have what he wants, body going pliant beneath him.  It’s freeing in a way, letting this man take what he wants.  It’s not unpleasant, far from it, and Yuuri is mortified when his body betrays him momentarily, his hips rocking forward just enough for Nik to notice, judging by the quick draw of breath in their interrupted kiss.

Nik’s hand leaves Yuuri’s hair and moves to his waist, gripping him tightly in place, even as he presses kisses down the line of Yuuri’s neck, nuzzling in a wholly inappropriate and overly-familiar way just beneath his ear.  “You’ve been holding out on me, my lord,” Nik whispers into Yuuri’s ear.

Yuuri hums, mind buzzing and maybe just a little bit overwhelmed.  It’s only _then_ he feels the press of Nik’s fingers at his waistcoat pocket, before he draws back.  Yuuri only catches a split second of Nik’s face and triumphant expression before he pulls the mask back up and steps away from Yuuri, gun leveled once more at Yuuri’s chest.

Nik holds up a gold ring with his free hand – Yuuri’s gold ring.  “I thought it was very likely you were holding out on me, my lord,” Nik says, raising an eyebrow in admonishment.  “Turns out I was correct.”

Yuuri’s surprise clearly must show on his face, because Nik laughs and throws the ring up in the air, catching it quickly before Yuuri can dart forward to take it back.

“Give that back,” Yuuri demands. 

“I think not.”  Nik makes a show of sliding the ring into his own waistcoat pocket.  “I think I’ve done quite well today, wouldn’t you agree?  A kiss from a beautiful man and a gold ring.  It’s almost like a marriage proposal.” 

Yuuri doesn’t think; he surges forward, anger finally getting the jump on his body’s attempt at confused desire.  “You bastard,” he says, pushing at Nik’s chest.  “You got what you wanted, now leave us to our travels in peace.” 

Nik tilts his head again in what Yuuri recognizes is amusement and it burns Yuuri to think that the man is laughing at his expense.

Nik offers Yuuri a mocking bow, and reaches for his horse’s reins, pulling himself into the saddle.  “It was a pleasure doing business, my lord,” Nik says with a nod.  “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

He circles his horse, pistol still pointed in Yuuri’s direction, and calls out over his shoulder, “Jack! We’re done.  Cut the tracings on the carriage.”

“Wait – no,” Yuuri says, stepping forward.  “You can’t do that – you can’t leave us here in the forest at this late hour!”

“I think I can do whatever I want, my lord,” says Nik.  “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

There’s the sound of a whinnying horse, followed by the deafening roar of a gun going off.  A dark shape thunders by, followed by another, and Yuuri knows without a doubt that Nik’s accomplice has cut the horses loose, fired his pistol to spook them.  There will be no catching them now, and Yuuri and Minami, along with the coach driver, will have to walk to the next inn along the route at Hastingwood.  It will take hours.

Once they’re alone, Yuuri feels the fury building inside.  Not only has he been forced to make a deal at gunpoint with a common criminal, he’s been felt up, kissed senseless, and robbed.  He hates Swift Nik with a passion… passion being the word for it.  Yuuri wants to do whatever it is two men do to each other (he has a general idea, although the specifics elude him at this moment) and then maybe see him hang by the neck afterward.  Probably.  Yuuri sighs.  Shit, he’s confused and in lust.  Simply reading about Swift Nik was bad enough.  Being kissed by him? Yuuri’s not going to forget that for a while.

Yuuri schools his face into something he hopes is approaching normal, forcing his blush down, and turns to Minami.  “Let’s start walking,” he says.

Minami is rooted to the spot, hands at his sides, and making an odd gargling noise.  For a moment, Yuuri wonders if Minami is okay, or if he maybe needs assistance.  Suddenly, it’s as if the cork comes off the bottle; Minami is blabbering a mile a minute without pausing for breath, something about how sexy the kiss was and highwayman, and how Yuuri is his hero and – Yuuri tunes it out after a few moments, preferring to rescue his cloak from the coach because the air is nippy and he’ll need it. 

They have a long, and clearly tiring, walk ahead of them.  Long enough at least for Yuuri to plot his revenge on Swift Nik and also figure out how to get his ring back. 

After all, he’s got all night to come up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how long this will end up being, but I will probably post weekly :)
> 
> Feel free to come scream with me on Tumblr [here!](http://caeseria.tumblr.com/)


	3. Spur of the Moment Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phichit is a force of nature and Yuuri confesses; meanwhile Victor and Chris run into unexpected trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone is wondering, I've written this in a contemporary style on purpose. I decided from the beginning that trying to write sarcastic humour in a historical 18th century fashion would probably be confusing and make the story flow less smoothly. So, if you come across some historical inaccuracy in both speech and the odd detail, it's there on purpose! Enjoy! :)
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yuuri’s having breakfast; enjoying the peace and quiet, the way the early morning sunlight washes through the floor-length windows.  He’s about to bite into his toast when he can hear what sounds suspiciously like drama happening in the foyer of the manor house.  He looks at his poached egg and counts the seconds, waiting until the whirlwind arrives.

“Yuuri!” Phichit bursts into the dining room – which is thankfully empty of the rest of Yuuri’s family – brandishing a cheap printed pamphlet like a weapon.  “Why didn’t you tell me about this!” he exclaims.

Yuuri pauses with his toast half way to his mouth, and Phichit waits, frozen on the other side of the table.  “Well?” he bellows after a moment.

Yuuri waves off the startled servant that has appeared in the doorway.  “Um, I didn’t mention it because you were in London? It seemed easier to wait for your return than to send a letter.”

“Is _this_ true?” Phichit waves the pamphlet menacingly.

Yuuri blinks, a blank expression on his face.  “Depends on what it says,” he answers carefully.  “I can’t read it since you are waving it around.”

Phichit rounds the table and slides into the seat next to Yuuri.  He slams the paper onto the table and smooths the wrinkles out with the palm of his hand, watching Yuuri expectantly as he glances at the headline.

THE GENTLEMAN HIGHWAYMAN STRIKES AGAIN!

Yuuri lets out a huff of annoyance.  Some enterprising artist has done a nice woodcut of Swift Nik robbing what appears to be Yuuri’s coach. What is more irritating than anything is the way woodcut Yuuri appears to be swooning out of the coach window, like some damsel in distress, waving a handkerchief and clearly about to surrender his virtue.

“No, it’s not true,” Yuuri says flatly, biting into his toast.  “I did not swoon like that.”

Phichit’s mouth, which had been hanging open, shuts smartly with a click of his teeth.  Then he breaks out into a shit-eating grin.  “So… you _did_ get robbed at gunpoint by Swift Nik? You aren’t denying it?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri mutters.  He drops his toast and pushes his chair back; it makes a horrible squealing noise across the wood floor.  “Let me get my boots and we’ll take a turn around the garden.”

Phichit barely waits until Yuuri’s out the door before he grabs his arm, hanging on and leaning in.  Yuuri half-drags, half-walks Phichit out through the arbour and past the courtyard, into the garden proper.  Usually it’s a soothing walk, and Yuuri likes to stop to admire the herbaceous borders his mother plants, but today he’s got to deal with his best friend.

“So, what do the papers say happened then?” Yuuri asks.  It seems easier to ask that question and fill in the gaps rather than go on at length about the ordeal.

“Hmm.” Phichit slows for a moment, clearly thinking.  “According to the _London Courant_ , Swift Nik stopped your carriage, shot your driver, and ravished your person in front of the other passengers before making off with a year’s worth of your income.  Apparently, your virtue is well and truly sullied, Yuuri.  How does it feel?”  Phichit grins.

Yuuri halts abruptly, enough to almost pull Phichit off-balance.  “I – wait, _what_?! My virtue is wholly intact, thank you very much!” he bellows.

One of the gardeners looks up, eyes wide, and then busies himself with what clearly must be a particularly difficult area of border to weed.  It’s more like he’s furiously scrubbing at the ground rather than hoeing it.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and pulls Phichit through the gate and into the walled garden.  The sun is much warmer in here, the air already heady with the smell of lavender.  Yuuri drags Phichit further inside until they are out of earshot of the gardener and sinks down onto the ground.  Phichit sits down next to him, batting lazily at a curious bee until it moves on.

“So, Swift Nik didn’t shoot the driver?” Phichit asks, for the moment serious. 

“No.  But I’ve thought about it, and I think both Swift Nik and Black Jack must have decided I would make a good target while we were at the Saracen’s Head that night.”

“But they would have known you didn’t have any cash on you since you were returning from London,” Phichit says with a frown.  “Why the hell would they bother holding up your coach?  Clearly he checked you out beforehand – wait – he totally _checked_ you out!!”

Yuuri stares at Phichit, open-mouthed in incredulous disbelief.  “Checked me out, as in ‘observed my person’?”

“Observed your ass, more like.” Phichit is evidently on a roll now and warming up to the idea.

“He took my signet ring since it was all I had on me,” Yuuri grumbles. 

“You keep that hidden, Yuuri,” Phichit says with a frown.  “How did he find it?”

Yuuri has known since the robbery happened that Phichit was going to ask this question.  It’s unavoidable, a bit like having to attend the Leroy’s annual soiree.  Yuuri tries to evade the question for as long as possible, and then gives into the inevitable.  The words come out in a rush, a waterfall of sound.   “Well, he was going to shoot my manservant unless I kissed him.  He manhandled me during the kiss and discovered it in my pocket.”  Yuuri can feel his face heating, and he does what any sensible person would do and buries his face in his hands, flopping onto his back, narrowly missing one of the lavender bushes. 

Phichit is strangely silent, so Yuuri risks a peek from between his fingers, just to check his friend is okay.  “Phichit?”

Phichit goes from looking indignant to wearing a suddenly very blank expression. He turns to Yuuri, and then the blank look disappears, to be replaced with a shit eating grin.  “Um, sorry, _what_? A kiss, you said?”  He leans closer.  “How does a kiss happen during a stagecoach robbery, Katsuki Yuuri?”

“I don’t know!” Yuuri squeaks.  “I panicked! I told him he could have whatever he wanted if he let my manservant go and heaskedforakiss.”

“Was it good?”

Yuuri flails internally.  Surprisingly, this was not the question Yuuri was expecting Phichit to ask.

“What type of kiss was it?” Phichit continues.  “Like, was there… tongue?”

“Oh my god.”

Phichit’s eyes go round, like saucers, and he gasps.  “Ohmygod, there _was_ tongue. What does he look like? Was it sexy? You’ve been thinking about this for years; how did you not implode?”

“I got angry,” Yuuri huffs out. “That’s my ring and I want it back.  I will get it back, mark my words.”

Phichit puts his hands together like he’s praying and glances towards the sky, muttering under his breath.  “This is better than anything I’ve ever heard,” he sighs happily.  “Desire and revenge mixed together in a heady cocktail of passionate, mutual longing.”

“That – that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Yuuri says, trying not to blush and failing almost immediately.

Phichit pats Yuuri on the shoulder.  “It’s okay, I understand if you are in denial.  You’ll come around eventually.”  Phichit stands up and brushes off his breeches.  “Well, as much as I want to stay for all the gory details – which I will get eventually, just so you know – I am required back at the house or my mother has threatened to keep me at home during the summer ball.  This is unacceptable, so I have to at least appear to cooperate with her wishes for the next few weeks.”  He glances down at Yuuri again, and a more genuine smile crosses his face.  “I’m glad you are okay though and no harm was done to you.  I need my best friend in one piece, otherwise who else will make me behave at the ball?”

Yuuri grins.  Phichit is very good at normalizing Yuuri’s weird mood swings, and he feels a lot more even and centered now they’ve talked.  He pulls himself up and dusts off.  “We can’t have your non- attendance,” Yuuri says.  “Who else is going to stop me being a wallflower at the drinks table?”

Phichit laughs, nudging Yuuri with his shoulder.  “We’ll get you out of your shell, never fear.  Walk me back?”

Yuuri nods, and they make their way back through the gate, toward the front of the manor house where a servant is waiting with Phichit’s horse.  “Don’t get into trouble and get sidetracked,” Yuuri warns. 

Phichit winks at Yuuri as he mounts his horse, taking up the reins and nudging the horse forward.  “I could say the same to you,” he says with a laugh.

* * *

 

Three days later, Yuuri is on his way back from the Nikola Estate just outside of Hatfield.  He’s had to endure an excruciating morning being forced to socialize with the Nikola’s son after having called on the family.  (Yuuri’s mother is to blame: “ _You really should be trying to settle down with a nice boy or girl at your age, dear_.”) Yuuri’s had to endure stilted pleasantries, a walk in the garden, and well… Emil is nice but he’s only _nice_.  He doesn’t make Yuuri’s loins throb like the sight of some cheap pamphlet showing a woodcut of Swift Nik would.  Okay, so the Nikola’s had had hot chocolate to drink, and god knows, Yuuri’s a whore for hot chocolate, even on a summer day.  But no, he can’t think of settling for someone pleasant like Emil; Yuuri wants excitement.  He wants his breath to catch in his throat whenever he sees the one he loves, he wants that tight ache in his belly when he kisses that person, he wants –

Yuuri shifts in the saddle and rests one hand on his thigh, holding the reins loosely in the other.  His horse, JJ (named specifically after that asshat of a neighbor two estates over who makes Yuuri’s blood _boil_ ) makes a huffing noise as Yuuri’s weight settles again. 

Yuuri wants… Swift Nik.  Dammit, he thinks.  It’s been just over two weeks and he’s still fixated like a swooning maiden over his encounter in the forest.  Sure, he’s still pissed as fuck that Nik managed to get a hold of his signet ring, and he is plotting revenge, absolutely, but Phichit would die laughing if he knew Yuuri was still getting all worked up over that single, stupid kiss.  It’s not like Yuuri has even seen the man’s face – nobody has – but that almost makes it worse.  It means that Yuuri’s brain now has the opportunity to imagine all kinds of things about what lies under Nik’s mask.  He’s felt the lines of that lean, hard body against his, pressing him into the side of the stagecoach.  He knows how soft Nik’s lips are, how they curl upward slightly when he’d smirked against Yuuri’s.  Some perverse part of Yuuri wants Nik to be an ugly fuck so he can get over this already and watch the man hang.

He huffs angrily to himself and directs JJ along the road that follows the meandering lines of Cripsey Brook.  It’s a shortcut he doesn’t mind taking; the small trackway is well kept and free from potholes, and with the brook on his left side he can just let the reins drop and enjoy the scenery.  It’s a beautiful day; a little on the warm side, and Yuuri is about to shuck his jacket and ride in his shirt instead when he hears what sounds like a shout and splashing from just around the bend of the brook.

Concerned, Yuuri spurs JJ into a trot and rounds the corner.  At this point the brook is a little further back from the road and the bank is lined with trees.  It means that Yuuri can’t see who’s fallen in the stream; he’ll have to dismount.  He jumps down and ties JJ to a fallen log near the road.  He pushes through the brush carefully, and when he looks up he’s greeted with the sight of a glorious, mostly-naked Greek god striding from the brook, droplets of sacred water sliding down his perfect pecs and rock-hard abs.  Adonis is smiling at his companion who is still floundering in the water.  Adonis is half dressed, clearly not worried about getting his breeches wet since they are stuck to his body like a second skin.  His hair is blond maybe, it’s hard to tell since it’s wet; pushed back from his face, and he has cheekbones you could cut yourself on.  Yuuri makes a small noise of appreciation from behind his tree and pauses, because clearly Adonis is not drowning and does not need assistance.  _I should really just stay for a few moments_ , Yuuri thinks to himself, _make sure he doesn’t throw himself back in the water by mistake_. 

Adonis is talking to his companion, who is now climbing from the water, but Yuuri only has eyes for the god before him.  He decides to creep just a little closer; that next tree should do the trick nicely.

“Chris, get up here and dry off,” Adonis says with a laugh.  He settles himself on the ground with his back to Yuuri and flops into the grass, effectively disappearing from view.

The other man – Chris – follows Adonis’ example and settles next to him.  Yuuri is just about to tree-hop for the second time so he can get Adonis back in view when Chris says, “Are you sighing over Beautiful Boy again?”

 _Oh ho_ , Yuuri thinks.  _Gossip_.  Surely Adonis must be local, and considering he’s lounging around in the day and not working, he must be gentry of some kind.  Yuuri needs to find out stat who Adonis is and see if he can wrangle a social call and maybe hot chocolate from his new intended husband to be.

“Don’t mock me,” Adonis says in a pouty voice that is _adorable_.  “Why is life so difficult?” he continues.  “The man of my dreams appears, then effectively disappears in one night, with only a kiss to show for it.”

 _What a bastard_ , Yuuri thinks.  Who would toy with the affections of such a fine specimen of manhood? Clearly whoever this Beautiful Boy is needs his head examined.

“I mean, I have things going for me,” Adonis continues.  “I stand to inherit a large estate, a townhouse in London and like, huge tracts of land.”

Yuuri squeaks and claps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide in disbelief.  _Wow_ , incredible.  Adonis must be worth a _mint_. Even more reason to arrange a social call and a chocolate date.

Chris laughs and leans up on his elbows to look at Adonis. “Victor, you should actually try to talk to Beautiful Boy.  Not just kiss him senseless, you know.  What you did was very underhanded.”

“I had to get his attention,” Adonis-now-Victor says. “And you went along with it.”

“I only went along with it because I am your best friend,” Chris says, flopping back down.

Victor… Victor.  Yuuri tries to remember if he’s heard of any families in the vicinity with a son called Victor.  He should check with Phichit.  At least Phichit will be pleased he’s now thoroughly over his Swift Nik fascination, and now has a new obsession – er, goal.

Victor is now waxing lyrical about Beautiful Boy.  “—those thighs, oh my god, Chris.  And his ass – I mean, I bet if I tossed a guinea at that ass, it would bounce right off.”

Chris barks out a laugh.  “And I bet that if you tried that on Katsuki he would probably turn around and punch you in your face.  I want to watch that.  In fact, he should have done that the first time you tricked him into kissing you.”

Yuuri’s world grinds to a halt, along with all thoughts of chocolate dates and naked swims and Adonis.  _Katsuki_.  He must have misheard. 

“He seemed to enjoy the kiss,” Victor muses. “He was quite enthusiastic.”

“You were going to kill his manservant,” Chris says flatly. “Of course he was enthusiastic. If he hadn’t shown you a good time you would have shot the kid.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot his manservant,” Victor objects. “He just _thought_ I was going to.”

Yuuri’s half listening to this idiotic monologue, but at the same time too many things are falling into place; too many familiar things that match with his own experience from the robbery.  They _must_ be talking about him.

The noise Yuuri makes this time is almost inhuman with rage, but fortunately he still has his hand over his mouth so the sound doesn’t carry.  _What an absolute bastard_ , Yuuri thinks furiously. _You rotten son of a bitch_.  They played him.  They weren’t after his money that night in Epping, Victor was after his attention.  They made him walk miles to the nearest coaching inn in the pitch dark just because Swift Fucking Nik wanted to get his dick wet at some point in the future and thought this was a good way to go about it.

He manages to push himself away from the tree without giving himself away.  He’s forced to take a somewhat circuitous route to avoid making noise, because he’s really, really angry and he doesn’t trust himself right now not to turn back and punch Victor in the face just like Chris had suggested. 

And that’s when he comes across Victor and Chris’ horses tied to another tree stump.

Yuuri stops in his tracks.  He stands upright, flexing his hands to relieve the ache where he’s been clenching them.  An idea floats into the forefront of Yuuri’s mind, and he can feel a sort of scary, slow smirk settle on his face.  Yep, Phichit would be screaming right now, but he is so going to do this.  Swift Nik – aka Victor Whatever, is going to _pay_.

* * *

 

“Are you sure we left the horses here?”  Victor stands in the road, hands on his hips, as he stares left and then right.  “I mean, I thought I recognized that tree stump over there that looks like Yakov’s head.  It’s sort of got his nose.”

“Victor, focus.”  Chris pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Okay, so we tied the horses here and went for a swim.  Now the horses are gone.  We’ve clearly been robbed.”

“ _We’ve_ been robbed?!” Victor exclaims. “We are _highwaymen_.  Highwaymen do not get their horses stolen, Chris. This is an aberration of gargantuan proportions.  I might have to complain to the local constable about keeping thieves off the roads. I simply can’t have this sort of thing happening so close to home. It makes me look bad as a landowner if I can’t keep my tenants safe.”

Chris rolls his eyes.  “Victor, are you listening to yourself? You rob people for fun and because you are bored.”

Victor turns and scowls at Chris.  “I have never been less bored these last few weeks, Chris.  I am in _love_ ,” Victor exclaims dramatically.  “And besides, we don’t ‘perform’ this close to home.  It would go against my moral compass.”

Chris perks up suddenly, and Victor turns to look over his shoulder to see what has Chris looking so happy.  “Oh look, there’s my horse!” Chris says, starting to trot down the road.  “Maybe Maccachin is nearby?”

Victor runs after Chris, hard on his heels, because maybe he’ll find his beloved Macca –

Chris reaches for the reins on his horse and checks him over, running a hand down Bess’ foreleg and checking for injury.  “She’s fine,” Chris breaths out happily.

“Maccachin?” Victor asks, glancing around.  “She can’t be gone! She’s my pride and joy!”

“Ohshit,” Chris mutters.  He looks up from checking the girth on the saddle, which he’d loosened when they’d parked the horses earlier.  The girth has been recently tightened by someone, and Chris knows this because there’s a note slipped under the strap.  He pulls it loose, glances at it, smirks and then hands it to Victor.  “You should read that.”

“Me? Why?”

Victor pulls the creases from the paper (which coincidentally is a cheap leaflet with a woodcut of himself holding up Beautiful Boy in Epping Forest the other week) and reads the elegantly lettered note on the reverse. While the writing itself is a work of art, the message is, to be blunt, not.

 _Swift Nik,_  
_I bet a new horse is going to cost you more than a guinea._  
_Fuck You,_  
_love Beautiful Boy xx_  

“Ohshit.” Victor echoes Chris’ earlier statement.  “ _He_ must have been here.  _He_ overheard us. How does this sort of thing happen to me?!”

“You, my man, are fucked and not in a good way,” Chris says with a raised eyebrow.  He mounts Bess and looks down at Victor, holding out a hand.  “Are you coming?”

“I can’t ride behind you,” Victor exclaims.

“It’s that or walk.  It’s a fair ride to your estate, is it not?”

“He did this on _purpose_ ,” Victor seethes.  “He stole my horse so I would have to walk home.”

Chris is not even trying to hide his mirth at this point; he’s outright laughing.  “Oh god, Victor.  This boy is _gold_.  He’s stolen not only your heart and your reason, he’s also taken your horse.  I want to be best man at the wedding.”

“This is not over,” Victor vows, brandishing the leaflet in the air. He stuffs it into his coat pocket.  “I will find Katsuki Yuuri and I will find my horse and then I will… do something to get even. Mark my words.”  Victor ignores Chris’ offer of assistance and climbs up behind him.  “Let’s go home before it gets dark. I don’t want to be robbed again, thank you very much.”

 


	4. To the Dogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor meets Vicchan. And the business end of a cavalry pistol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was surprisingly difficult to write. Huh.

If pressed for information, Victor might possibly admit to being _just_ a tad annoyed that Beautiful Boy, aka Katsuki Yuuri, had managed to get one up on him and steal his horse.  Victor’s feelings are complicated; there’s the inconvenience of not having Maccachin around, but Victor is, at the same time, also very much impressed with Yuuri’s ability to scheme diabolically quickly on the fly.  Yuuri must have overheard his and Chris’ conversation and then, in a matter of moments, decided to get revenge.  Other, less impressive individuals might have headed back to the riverbank, pulled a pistol and tried to take down Victor and Chris. 

Yuuri had chosen petty revenge instead, and honestly, it makes Victor’s heart sing and at the same time flutter dangerously in his chest.  It’s a bit like having indigestion after a glass of superb vintage port; its fun while your doing it but not so great later.  Victor’s feelings are myriad; he feels a heady cocktail of desire and passion.  He’s currently in enthralled infatuation with Katsuki’s thighs and ass. He admires his beautiful boy’s quick thinking and intelligence. His wide-eyed innocence and obvious lack of experience in the boudoir.  Yep, Victor’s got a problem, all right. It’s about seven and a half inches long and perks up whenever he sees Katsuki.

Still, it doesn’t negate the fact he needs to get Maccachin back.  He’s not worried that Yuuri might try to sell his horse or treat him ill; he doesn’t believe Yuuri is that type of person.  But Victor has trained Maccachin over a decade; his horse will respond to the slightest signal, can almost read his intentions without being told.  Having a horse that can do that is invaluable, especially during a robbery when your hands are holding a pistol – you can’t have a badly trained horse playing up while you are trying to look suave and cool.  And of course, Victor misses Macca. She’s been his companion these many years and Victor won’t put that by lightly.

All this has resulted in Victor skulking around in the woods overlooking the Katsuki manor – _Yutopia_ – under cover of nightfall.  The Katsuki family are well-known and well-liked in the area, and while Victor’s small hunting lodge is about thirty miles away, its still far enough that he’d had to ask at The Plough for directions.

From here, at the edge of the woods, Victor has a good view of the layout of the estate.  The manor house itself must be at least a couple of hundred years old; probably around the same age as Victor’s hunting lodge.  The main house fronts onto some lovely gardens and surrounds a courtyard on three sides.  At the back, set away from the manor, are the outbuildings; brew house, buttery, various barns and a rather impressive stable block fronted in pale sandstone.  The stable roof is topped with a set of finials (could be fish, hard to tell from this distance) and a garish copper weathervane in the shape of a prancing cock with tailfeathers all a flutter.  Victor smirks.  Who knew Beautiful Boy had such an impressive cock? He’ll have to tell Chris later.

Victor spends the next hour until full dark watching as the estate settles down for the night.  The last of the horses are bought in from pasture, the buttery maids return to the main house.  A single light is left lit over the entrance to the stables, and finally, the entire household goes quiet.  Somewhere inside the manor, Beautiful Boy is getting into bed; closing his eyes and slipping into sweet dreams.  As appealing as the thought is, Victor isn’t here tonight to disturb Katsuki Yuuri, as much as he’d like to. 

No, it’s time to make his move and get what he came for.

He slips off his cloak, bundling it up and tying it to the saddle of the mare he’d ridden from the hunting lodge.  He makes sure the mare is comfortable, pulls his mask up over his nose and his tricorn hat low, and begins to head down the gentle slope towards the estate proper.  He keeps to the edges of the woods, staying in the shadows. The last thing he wants to do is rouse the household.  If he plays this right, he should be able to get into the stable, find Maccachin, and get her saddled before anyone notices anything amiss.  Victor doesn’t want to cause trouble tonight; he’s intent on nobody realizing he was here until tomorrow morning.

He pauses at the edge of the wooded copse.  This close he can make out the fish at the end of each finial of the stable block; arching gracefully backward, tails upward, like they’re frolicking.  Victor wants to frolic with Beautiful Boy, but that’s going to have to come much later. 

There’s no sound or movement from the stable, so Victor decides to make his move.  He steps from the safety of the trees, onto the well-maintained grass, and moves swiftly toward the building.  He gets halfway across the grass when he hears a growl.  It’s a low enough sound that Victor’s not actually sure if he heard it, or if it’s his mind playing tricks on him.  He hesitates.  Should he turn back or run for the stable block?

The problem is solved for him when three dogs burst from the stable entrance.  As one they halt, sniffing the air, and then the lead dog shifts its gaze toward where Victor stands, exposed, in the middle of the field. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Victor mutters succinctly. The dogs are hunting dogs; that much is clear.  The lead dog is huge, a dark curly-haired retriever, used for hunting and fetching, while the other two dogs, judging by the spots, are coaching dogs, bred specifically to guard carriages.  Victor can’t help a small incredulous laugh, because if Yuuri had only taken these two behemoths with him that night, there’s no way he would have been held up on the Epping Road by Chris and Victor.

Victor scarcely moves; he wonders if he can outrun the dogs and make it to the edge of the forest in time.  He doubts it; the dogs are trained for speed, and Victor really doesn’t like the look of the lead dog – the curly haired retriever.  That one is definitely the alpha dog, and even if Victor makes it into the woods he doesn’t want to lead them toward his horse.  A spooked horse will be impossible to catch and quieten down.

This, of course, leads Victor to the inevitable conclusion that he’ll have to try to outrun the dogs across the lawn.  The manor house is closer than the trees; maybe he can get inside or up on a roof and hope for the best.

The lead dog stares Victor down, tongue hanging out as it huffs.  The coaching dogs whine, tensing behind the retriever.  Victor goes from frozen to a sprint in one swift move; a mad dash across the lawn toward the house proper, legs pumping, breath coming fast in his chest.  The first casualty of the evening is his hat; it flies off, only to be mauled casually by one of the coaching dogs as it flutters to the ground.  He risks a glance over his shoulder: the dogs flow like liquid death after him, a roiling pack of teeth and limbs, muscle, gaining with every second.  The dogs are bred for the chase; they’re trained to be silent during the hunt and Victor doesn’t stand a chance of outrunning them.

Except –

Victor spies a thin brick ledge on the wall of the manor, just below the second story. It’s clearly only decorative and inches wide at most but, if he can jump up there, he can maybe get to the roof where the dogs can’t reach him.

From somewhere Victor finds a reserve of energy; he jumps for the manor wall, reaching upward, snagging a hand on the ledge and using a cast iron drain pipe to propel himself further up the wall.  The ledge is far too narrow to balance on, he realizes, and the dogs are now at the base of the wall, tails wagging, gruff snarls of disapproval the only noise they make.  They mill around, watching him, waiting for him to fall.  Victor doesn’t want to think about what the next few excruciating moments will be like if he does fall; being mauled to death won’t be pretty.  He looks up, searching quickly, and settles on a window just to the right.  It’s one of many, but the casement is half open, enough for Victor to –

He jumps, reaching for the windowsill; gets a hand on it.  He ignores the way the wood bites into his fingers, and he swings, getting his other hand and then his arm on the edge.  He pauses; the room is dark, and hopefully unoccupied.  He might be in luck after all.  It’s a matter of seconds to wait, ignoring the snarling death below him, and then to slip silently into the room, barely scraping by the window.  Victor shifts and drops to the ground, soundless, crouched down, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the velvet dark in the room.

It’s takes him a couple of tense minutes before his vision adjusts, and then Victor slowly stands, taking in his surroundings.  The room is fronted by three tall windows, and between two of them is a writing desk.  It’s rather a frivolous affair; all elegantly carved wood with drawers to either side, and a locked cabinet in front and shelves that hold a selection of paper.  The most interesting thing about the writing desk is that laid out on the surface is what appears to be a scrapbook, and it takes Victor a few long seconds to figure out exactly what it contains.  Between each leaf of paper, carefully cut out and arranged, is article after article about himself – well, Swift Nik – every robbery, every dashing adventure and supposition as to his identity and whereabouts.  The scrapbook isn’t a new project either by any means; it appears to date back right to Victor’s very first forays into outlawry dating back a decade.  It seems the owner of the room is a bit of a fan.  Victor grins behind his mask.  He doesn’t have time, however, to ponder this further; he needs to make good on his escape before he’s noticed.  He glances around again, looking for the door.  Against one wall of the chamber is a four-poster bed, and beyond that the key to freedom: the door to the hallway.  To the left of the bed is – wait. 

Victor’s eyes track back to the bed and he sucks in a breath.  Lying in the bed, sleeping like the dead seemingly, is Beautiful Boy.  Who is apparently enough of a fanboy that he has a scrapbook containing every deed and misdeed Swift Nik has ever committed. 

Victor allows himself a muttered ‘ _yes’_ followed by a fist pump in the air. Despite all this evenings stupidity, he’s still managed to find himself in the one place he wanted to be but swore he wasn’t going to.  Fate is a fickle and wonderful thing, he thinks.  He tests his weight on a floorboard, but there’s no noise, no creaking.  He moves until he’s alongside the bed, because while he does need to get the hell out of here, there’s a small matter that Yuuri’s supine body is a siren song to Victor’s dick and he needs to have just _one_ quick look before he retreats to safety.

His beautiful boy is laid out on the bed, on his back, one arm resting near his shoulder, the other down against his side.  Yuuri’s lashes are long and thick, shadows caressing his face.  He looks so innocent lying there; lips parted slightly, hair tousled against his cheekbones. The air is close in the room, so he’s flung the covers back and his nightshirt is rucked up, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of firm calf and inner thigh.  Even his knees are pretty. The nightshirt is made of fine muslin, almost see-through, and Victor can make out the shadows and dips of Yuuri’s lean body beneath it, can mark the lines of his body with ease. Victor goes lightheaded; he’s pretty sure he’s stopped breathing at this point, but breathing is for losers.  Yuuri mutters in his sleep, shifting slightly, and the nightshirt drops down from his shoulder, revealing more skin than Victor had ever hoped to see.  Victor realizes he’s a voyeur of the worst order, but he can’t seem to make himself move.

It’s then he realizes that Yuuri’s shifting can only mean one thing: he’s waking up.  Frozen to the spot, Victor watches as Yuuri’s lashes flicker and he turns his head, limbs lax with sleep starting to tense with waking.  Victor has two options: throw himself back out the window resulting in either instant death from a broken neck or being torn to shreds by the dogs, or two; hope to talk Yuuri around when he wakes up.

Victor makes a quick decision and goes for option three (which is actually a bit of a surprise, even to himself) and throws himself over Yuuri’s body.  He claps one hand over Yuuri’s mouth, slides a knee between Yuuri’s thighs, and grasps one wrist tightly, pressing him down into the mattress. 

Predictably, Beautiful Boy goes rigid in shock, eyes flying open as he lets out a shout which is thankfully muffled by Victor’s hand.  He flails a little, eyes still unfocused due to sleep, and then tenses again when he gets a good look at his attacker.

“Hi sweetheart!” Victor whispers cheerfully. “Look, I can explain everything.”

Yuuri makes a sort of protesting sound against Victor’s palm, but it’s hard to make out what he’s saying.  Judging by the way his eyebrows are drawn together in anger, it’s probably a slur on Victor’s parentage, or maybe a challenge to a duel. Or death.  Yep, that’s probably a death threat, Victor thinks.  Yuuri bucks up under him again and Victor shifts his weight so that he’s not bucked off.  Yuuri sucks in a quick breath, his eyelashes fluttering briefly, and he makes a sound, which Victor finds hard to define.  Then Yuuri goes slack beneath him.

After a few moments, where Yuuri blinks at Victor, Victor says, “If I take my hand away, will you promise not to call out?” 

Yuuri glares at him but says nothing.  Carefully, Victor moves his hand an inch, and then when Yuuri remains silent, breathes a sigh of relief.

“What the fu –“ Yuuri starts. 

Victor claps his hand back over Yuuri’s mouth, resulting in a further thrashing of the body beneath him.  “Look,” Victor whispers furiously, “I was simply coming here to rescue my horse which you actually _stole from me_ , and instead I got chased by your damn dogs and they hounded me up a wall and I ended up in here.”

Yuuri stops struggling beneath him, eyes wide as he searches Victor’s face.  Victor hesitates but pulls his hand away.  “ _Victor_? I mean, Nik?” Yuuri asks.

Of course, Victor thinks.  He’s still wearing his mask.  Yuuri probably thought he was being attacked by a random cut-throat murderer rather than the dashing highwayman who’d robbed him at gunpoint and stolen his first kiss. 

“ _You bastard_ ,” Yuuri hisses, and attempts to knee Victor in the groin.  Victor was somewhat prepared for this very outcome, having arranged his weight over Yuuri so it would be a difficult move, but he still grunts at the near miss to his family jewels. 

Yuuri manages to get a hand free while Victor is distracted, and reaches up, under the pillow.  Then he pulls out a cavalry pistol and points it at Victor’s face. “ _Touché_ , asshole,” Yuuri bites out, jamming the pistol under his jaw.

“Fuck,” says Victor for the second time that evening.

* * *

 

Ever since Victor had held up his coach, Yuuri’s been running on a heady mix of adrenaline fueled anger and confused lust.  Not to mention that he’s taken to jumping at shadows, paranoid and a little anxious that Nik – Victor – is going to track him down and get revenge for stealing his horse.  What had seemed like a hilarious spur-of-the-moment decision has, in the last day or so, shifted into Yuuri spending every waking moment on edge, wondering if, and when, Victor was going to show up and demand Yuuri hand over his horse. 

This is why Yuuri has taken to sleeping with a loaded pistol under his pillow, and also why the business end is currently jammed under the jaw of his masked intruder, who’s voice sounds suspiciously like Swift Nik’s.

“Take the mask off,” Yuuri commands, nervously jabbing the pistol forward to make his point. 

The pistol connects rather sharply with his intruder’s jawbone, making him wince.  “Ow,” Victor complains, tilting his head to the side. At least, Yuuri assumes it’s Victor; the voice is somewhat familiar, and his intruder does have silver hair.  He releases Yuuri’s other wrist, and sits up, reaching up slowly to pull down his mask. 

Yuuri uses the split second of inattention on Victor’s behalf to heave himself upright, spilling Victor off his body and to the side.  Quickly, before he can think through the ramifications of such an act, Yuuri straddles him, gun still pressed under Victor’s jaw.  Victor looks a little shocked, and then his eyes go half-lidded, his gaze sharp and hungry.  He looks like the cat that got the cream, and not at all concerned he has a cavalry pistol pointed in his face.  Now that Yuuri can see his face, it’s clear that it is Swift Nik, aka Victor Whatever. 

It takes Yuuri a further few seconds to process why Victor is suddenly pliant and ready to cooperate: Yuuri is straddling his hipbones, putting himself in a _very_ compromising position atop his erstwhile attacker.  To punctuate the point, Victor shifts a little beneath him.

“This is cozy,” Victor purrs, placing his hands on the outside of Yuuri’s thighs, close to the hem of his nightshirt.

“I have a pistol pointed at your face,” Yuuri reminds him a little breathlessly.  “Be very careful about where you are putting your hands, _Nik_.”

Victor tightens his fingers slightly. His thumbs trace small circles over Yuuri’s bare skin, but Yuuri can’t find it in himself to protest much.  What is wrong with him?  He _should_ be terrified; alerting the household to the intrusion at the very least, and yet here he is, half-dressed and mostly naked, straddling a highwayman and thinking about a whole different kind of intrusion, his body buzzing with something akin to breathless excitement and low-level arousal.  Clearly he needs to stop reading trashy romance pamphlets in his spare time.  

Yuuri can feel himself blush; it’s dark in the room but Victor seems like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on Yuuri.  Flustered, Yuuri does the next best thing to panicking; he slowly cocks the pistol and presses it back against Victor’s throat.  The noise is loud, out of place in the close, tense atmosphere of the room.

“Why are you here, Victor?” Yuuri asks in a hoarse tone that sounds almost breathless.  The truth is he’s having a hard time focusing; Victor is no doubt humoring Yuuri, waiting to make his move.  Victor could, if he chose, manhandle Yuuri any way he wanted to, and he’s only allowing Yuuri to hold a gun to his head because he _wants_ to; because it suits his purpose right now. 

Yuuri makes a little sound in the back of his throat and tries desperately not to shift his position, but his hips tick forward anyway, against his will.  His brain is going to short-circuit, and Victor seems more than a little interested in the position he’s currently sitting in, judging by the hardening length Yuuri can feel against his backside.  “What do you want from me?” Yuuri asks instead.

“You have something of mine,” Victor answers.  He slides his hands up Yuuri’s thighs half an inch, as if he’s hoping Yuuri won’t notice.

“Who?”

“My horse, sweetheart.  The one you stole, remember?”  He winks at Yuuri.

Yuuri is having a hard time staying on track.  Even in the dark, Victor is unfairly good looking, and stretched out below Yuuri’s inexperience he appears to be biding his time; waiting for Yuuri to mess up.  Yuuri internally flails.  He has no idea what he’s doing or what he should do next.  Is this some kind of dangerous game Victor wants to play or is he humoring Yuuri until he acts?

“I only stole your horse because you refuse to return my ring,” Yuuri mutters.  “Give me my ring and you can have your Maccachin back.”

“I don’t have it on me,” Victor replies, removing his hands long enough to hold them up.  “You can search me if you like?”

“I’m not going to search you!” Yuuri stutters out.  Flustered, he bumps the gun against Victor’s jaw again.

“Um, could you not keep jabbing me with your pistol?” Victor asks.  “As much as I can appreciate the intricate silver detailing on the barrel, it does rather hurt when you keep poking it in the same place over and over again.”  He appears to pause, as if he’s thinking over what he’s just said.  “Anyway. As I was saying: I can’t do you a swap, so you are just going to have to give me back my horse and we’ll call it even.”

“How does this make us even?” Yuuri hisses, leaning forward and placing a hand on Victor’s broad chest.  Yuuri shifts his weight.  Predictably, Victor makes a half-bitten off sound that could be pain or pleasure.  His face flushes, and his hands clamp back on the outside of Yuuri’s thighs like he’s looking for a lifeline. 

Yuuri’s starting to think he’s getting the hang of things; both the demanding answers part and the part where certain movements on his behalf seem to make Victor a lot more cooperative and just a little…eager to please.  This is interesting information to have, Yuuri decides.

Victor is still watching him, probably waiting to see what he’s going to do next. Yuuri decides to test his theory out; he wriggles a little and then squeezes his thighs lightly, tightening them around Victor’s hips.  Victor’s expression goes a little unfocused, and a whimper escapes his throat. They stare at each other for a moment, each acknowledging the power play for what it is.  “My horse…?” Victor prompts in a somewhat strangled voice.

“You’re in no position to be bargaining,” Yuuri reminds him.

“Maybe not.” Victor tilts his head back a little, like he’s getting comfortable, or perhaps he’s just trying to relieve the pressure of the pistol against his throat.  His thumbs have gone back to tracing little distracting patterns over Yuuri’s skin.  The bastard seems remarkably at ease with the fact his erection is currently pressed against Yuuri’s backside in a wholly inappropriate fashion.  “Don’t you think someone is eventually going to notice that you’ve got an unusual roan-coloured horse in your stables?”

“What? What does that have to do with anything?”

Victor hums, like he has a secret. He watches Yuuri intently, gaze dropping down to Yuuri’s mouth and then back up to his eyes.  “Roan horses are few and far between, Sweetheart, and they’re rather memorable.  It’s not a stretch to think that someone might think your new horse is very similar to the one known to be ridden by a notorious highwayman.  That could be dangerous, both for you and your family.”

“Are you threatening me again?” Yuuri bites out. 

“I’m stating a truth,” Victor admits.  “I’d hate to see you in trouble because of a petty argument between lovers.”

Victor says this so matter-of-factly that Yuuri actually has a hard time parsing the comment.  It takes his brain precious seconds to catch up.  “Lovers?!” he hisses, jamming the pistol hard against Victor’s jaw.  “We are absolutely not lovers!” He can feel his face flaming with either embarrassment or mortification; he’s not sure.

It seems Victor has finally gotten what he wanted, which is Yuuri off guard, because he reaches up, knocking the pistol from Yuuri’s hand to the floor in one smooth, clean movement. He carries his momentum forward, pushing Yuuri to the side, until he’s leaning over Yuuri, still in between his thighs, hand now clamped firmly around Yuuri’s wrists above his head.  Yuuri would be impressed if he wasn’t shocked into immobility by the sudden reversal.  He watches, pulse hammering in his throat, as Victor tilts his head to the side, clearly appraising Yuuri, admiring him in his captivity. 

“You are _divine_ , Katsuki Yuuri,” Victor says after a moment of contemplation.  “I wish – “

There’s the sound of distant drumming on the floorboards downstairs in the great hall.  Yuuri only recognizes it from years of repetition, of listening to the dogs’ race across the vast space.  “Vicchan,” Yuuri says, tearing his gaze away from Victor and looking to the door.  He glances up at Victor, who is watching the door, frowning. 

Victor seems to be thinking things through.  Then his face clears in horrified realization.  “Is that –“

“It’s the dogs,” Yuuri bites out, wriggling to try to get free.  “I’d say you have about forty seconds before they find their way up the stairs to this hallway.  Then you are _screwed_.”

Victor sighs in exasperation.  “It’s enough time to do this, then,” he murmurs, voice hot and intimate. 

It takes Yuuri a moment to catch up with his own screaming, under-sexed brain.  Victor leans down and kisses him, and this time, Yuuri’s body remembers the last, and draws from the experience.  The kiss is rough and filthy, almost desperate.  Yuuri lets out a small whine and bucks up beneath Victor, answering the kiss with one of his own.  Apparently Yuuri gets off on danger, which is something he’s going to have to examine later, he thinks. 

Victor decides to take liberties, and Yuuri lets him, as Victor slides a hand up Yuuri’s thigh, under the night shirt, and across the outside of his now exposed hip, squeezing roughly.  Yuuri’s gone from zero to sixty in under two seconds, utterly shameless in his desire to rut against Victor’s lean body in the time he has left.  All this wordplay has been simply that; foreplay that has left him unsatisfied, and Victor seems to be in a similar state.

Victor moans into the kiss, and then seems to tear himself away with difficulty.  “Gotta go, Beautiful Boy,” he teases.  “Miss me?”

Victor ignores Yuuri’s cry of annoyance at the nickname, and releases Yuuri’s wrists.  He half-slides, half-falls off the bed (very suave, Yuuri thinks sarcastically) and races for the nearest window, looking out toward the ground.  “Why is there a trellis here?” he demands indignantly, pointing downward. 

“Eh?” Yuuri struggles up onto his elbows.  He’s confused, and still in the throes of unresolved passion.  His brain isn’t working properly.

Victor points at the window again.  “There’s a trellis here.  I could have climbed this earlier instead of scaling the wall below the other window, dammit!”

The door to the room is flung open, the combined weight of the three hunting dogs pushing it wide.  Victor lets out a cry and swings himself through the window, dropping out of sight. 

“Oh my god!” Yuuri exclaims, pushing the dogs to the side and slamming open the casement.  He glances down, just in time to watch Victor grab haphazardly at the climbing vine on the trellis and then fall the last six feet in a flurry of leaves.  He bounces a little when he hits the ground, but he’s up and running before he’s even paused for breath. 

With an almost preternatural sixth sense, the dogs seem to sense Victor’s escape and they barrel back out of the door again as a pack, heading downstairs.  Yuuri wonders how they got into the house in the first place, but no matter.  Victor should _probably_ make it to safety before the dogs get to him, Yuuri thinks.

Maybe he’ll stay at the window and watch just to make sure.  It might be interesting, and it’ll definitely make for a good story the next time he sees Phichit.

Once Victor has made into the tree line and the dogs have gotten bored, milling around haphazardly on the lawn, Yuuri turns his attention back to the room.  He feels a little hot and bothered, like his emotions won’t quite fit comfortably within his skin.  He’s sporting a rather impressive hard-on that he hopes Victor didn’t notice, but he’s not going to hold out hope there.  More importantly, he’s torn between wanting to maybe kill Victor and at the same time ride him like he’s a prize stallion.

Yuuri sighs heavily and runs his hand through his hair.  It’s going to be hard to sleep now; his body is wired, his senses on overload.  He stares down at the floor, wondering where the pistol went to when Victor knocked it from his hand.  It’s nowhere to be found; neither on the bed or under it.  Yuuri runs mentally through his recent memories of Victor standing by the window, pointing outside.  His off hand had been held suspiciously close to his side, like he was hiding something against his thigh.  Maybe he’d been pointing because he was trying to distract Yuuri.

Maybe…

Yuuri swears.  That fucker took his pistol – his very expensive cavalry pistol that is the second in a pair of matched pistols his father gave him for his eighteenth birthday.

Victor now has not only Yuuri’s ring, but his fucking pistol.  Still, all is not lost, Yuuri thinks triumphantly, because he still has Victor’s damn horse. 

Touché, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless historical footnotes: In this story, Maccachin is a bay Roan. Roan is a colouring found on particular horse breeds; in the 18th century, mostly on warmblood horses which were bred for coaching and for the gentry to ride. Roan is usually a color + white dispersed underneath the coat, and the legs and extremities of the horse are the darker shade. A bay roan would have a reddish tinge to it, close to Macca in the anime. Roan's are not rare, but they are unusual enough that it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine Maccachin might stand out if he's being used as a highwayman's steed. Victor is an idiot.  
> The Curly-haired Retriever is a breed. It looks like a greyhound, but with short curly hair close to the body, and they are quite large dogs, bred to hunt and retrieve.   
> The spotted dogs in the pack are Dalmatians! They were bred specifically to protect carriages, and would keep up with the coach and horses, and run under the rear axles. Believe it or not, they were considered fairly terrifying and people actually preferred using them to protect a coach at night rather than the coachman, who used to drink a lot and couldn't be trusted to actually do their job. :)


	5. Fox on the Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maccachin gets frisky, while Yuuri gets outmaneuvered by a plan that actually works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't my best, but I've been looking at this chapter for a month, so I've decided to post it and move on to the next part. Sorry for any errors!!
> 
> Please enjoy!!
> 
> (Pronunciation note: Worcestershire (like the sauce) is pronounced "Wooster-shear". Really. We British like to Fuck With Your Heads with this shit; just like Towchester is actually pronounced "toaster". :DDD )

Victor watches with interest as Chris paces backward and forward across the drawing room.  After a few moments, he stops in front of the fireplace and puts his glass of port on the mantel.  Then he pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers and turns to look at Victor.

“So, let me get this straight,” Chris begins.  “You decided it was a good idea to trespass on Beautiful Boy’s property because you want Maccachin back.  So, you snuck in, got chased by dogs, somehow managed to climb into Katsuki’s bedchamber where you happened to find him in some flimsy romantic nightgown thing.  Then you manhandled him, he stuck a pistol in your face and, I quote, ‘ _tortured you with his thighs’_ and then you fell out of the window and down a trellis, stealing his pistol by mistake.  Oh, and Macca is still in the care of Katsuki, because you didn’t even make it to the stable block.”

“That’s about right,” Victor says (somewhat defensively), leaning back into the sofa and crossing his legs. 

“You two are _made_ for each other, oh my god.”  Chris shakes his head.  “Okay.  We need a game plan I think – one that is not made by you.”

“What’s wrong with my ideas?” Victor pouts.

“They’re shit,” Chris replies matter-of-factly.  “For a start, all your ideas involve trying to excite Katsuki by pointing a pistol in his face, and for some unknown reason, that seems to get your Beautiful Boy all hot and bothered.  And angry.”

Victor grins lecherously. “He gets all demanding when he’s angry.  I like it.”

“You have it bad, my friend,” Chris drawls.  “Anyway, are you sticking around the vicinity for the summer ball?”

“Ugh.”  Victor flops back into the couch and leans his head back.  “When is it?”

“A week from now.”  Chris picks up his glass of port and takes a sip.  “Mother is throwing it open again to the local gentry.  She likes to stay on top of her neighbours’ gossip.”

 _That_ perks Victor’s interest, and he sits up a little.  Chris is smirking, but Victor ignores that for the moment.  “Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning every year Mother throws open the house for the annual summer ball.  I think she’s also getting worried that she’ll never marry me off into the upper levels of the peerage.  She says she’s sick of me gallivanting around with my friends instead of being responsible.”  Chris pauses for dramatic effect, plopping his next comment into the conversation with an unconcerned wave of his hand: “She says the Giacometti’s have spent the last couple of hundred years breeding within the same upper-class circles and that the family could do with an injection of new blood.”

Victor chokes on a surprised cough and has to sit upright.  Eventually he can’t hold it in any longer and he starts laughing.  “Oh my god, Chris.  Are you kidding?”

“Her words, not mine.” Chris grins.  “I’m kinda looking forward to the injection part, to be honest.”

“How the hell is anyone from the local set supposed to manage to afford you?” 

“I think Mother is willing to turn a blind eye to a certain extent.”  Chris is grinning into his port, clearly trying not to start laughing, because Victor knows once they start they aren’t going to be able to stop.

“And you are going to go along with it? You and marriage… wow.”  Victor can’t quite believe Chris is being so cheerful about this.

“The gentry around here have manners, so I’m not concerned about that,” Chris says, flopping into the seat opposite Victor.  “I’m hoping there’s someone with a little bit of fire about them out there, rather like your Beautiful Boy.  I can’t put off the marriage thing forever.  It’s inevitable it has to happen; neither of us are exactly spring chickens any more.”

“Speak for yourself.  Well, looks like I don’t want to miss this,” Victor muses.  “Are you going to play them all off against each other and see who comes out on top?”

“Of course. Bar one fine specimen of male beauty.”  Chris waggles his eyebrows.

“Why the one?”

“You can be really dense, sometimes,” Chris sighs.  “I said the _whole_ set in the county has been invited.  That includes the Katsukis, and Beautiful Boy is all yours.”

Victor’s eyes go wide.  Oh shit, _that_ had not occurred to him the entire time Chris was talking.  “I can’t go,” he blurts out.

“Why ever not?” Chris looks slightly amazed and a little suspicious.

“Well, last time I saw him he pretty much threatened to kill me,” Victor points out.  “And there’s the whole fact that he’s seen my actual face and once we meet at the ball, he might alert the authorities regarding Swift Nik.”

“They’d never believe him,” Chris says firmly.  “You’re a lord of the land – well, you stand to inherit eventually.  You could pull endless character witnesses if it ever made it to court.  Besides, I think your boy likes you a little rough and dirty, and he might think the whole thing is hilarious.”

“Clearly you have never actually spoken to Yuuri, have you?” Victor drawls.  “He panics, then he gets this determined gleam in his eye, and then you’re fucked.”  The score currently stands at Victor 1 – 2 Beautiful Boy.  And oh, how it irks Victor that he’s _not_ winning.

“Yes, but you enjoy him fucking you over; that’s why you are still playing the game.  Anybody else would have lost your interest weeks ago.  You should come to the ball, confront him on a level field, and woo your man without threatening his life at gunpoint.”  Chris raises his fist in the air to make a point.

Victor supposes it might work.  He’s been told he has a decent personality, anyway.  “We have one problem,” Victor says gravely.

“And what’s that?” Chris asks.

“I’m going to need a new outfit.  I’m not riding to London to visit my tailor; there’s simply not enough time.”

“I have you,” Chris says. “We’ll head into Chelmsford tomorrow.  It’s a fairly large town and it has a good tailor who should be able to get you dressed for success in time for the ball. I’ve used him on occasion and I’m sure he’ll do me a favour.”

Victor feels a weight leave his chest.  If he can play this right, he’ll get to see his Beautiful Boy again, in his natural environment, surrounded by friends.  He might catch a glimpse of the real Yuuri, get to see what he’s like when he’s not on edge. That’s a very attractive thought.  “Deal,” Victor says.  “Let’s head into town tomorrow.”

“Good,” Chris says, slinging back the last of the port.  “Fancy a quick ride into the countryside before dinner? I could do with some fresh air.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were up to something,” Victor muses, placing a finger against his bottom lip.

Chris grins.  “I’m going to show you how to execute a proper plan, darling.  Watch the master at work.”

* * *

 

Yuuri’s already had enough of the day and it’s possibly only around nine, judging by the position of the sun in the sky.  He’d gotten up with the dawn, had breakfast and then called for his horse.  By the time he’d made it out to the stables, he was met with a rather apologetic stable hand and his spare bay horse, Chihoko, dutifully tacked up and ready to ride.

“Where’s JJ?” Yuuri asks, looking around.

The stable hand tugs on his forelock, offers an abortive bow, and then, like most of the working class about to explain something their superiors don’t want to hear, says, “Welllll, milord, JJ’s been acting up these last days, so….”  He jerks his head toward the back field, rolling his eyes.

Apparently, this is supposed to be enough explanation, but Yuuri seems to be missing a large piece of the puzzle.  “Acting up?” he repeats.

The stable hand manages to hold back a sigh.  “He’s frisky like,” the man says.  “Yanno, _frisky_.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to reply, but there’s suddenly a scuffle from the stable block, followed by some shouting.  There’s the sound of hooves ringing on the hard-packed ground and then the barking of the coaching dogs.  Yuuri turns just in time to see JJ making a break from the stable at speed, lead rein trailing behind him like a dancer’s ribbon, followed by a melange of stable boys, dogs, and the stable master bellowing instructions at the top of his lungs, which are clearly being ignored by everyone.  JJ makes a huffing-whinny noise, kicks up his heels, and jumps gracefully over the near fence, into the paddock, and then books it across the field, right for where Maccachin appears to be grazing peacefully.

Maccachin puts up her head, flicks her ears back, and kicks out with her back hooves, prancing off across the field with her tail in the air.

Yuuri suddenly has a very bad feeling about what exactly the word _frisky_ entails.

It’s like watching a cart hit another cart in slow motion: you can’t look away even if you know it’s going to be not only a disaster, but also slightly unpleasant to watch.  Maccachin whinnies, and then trots off, flicking her hooves in invitation.  JJ trots after her, and then rears up, covering her back and biting down on her neck –

“Oh my god!!!” Yuuri shrieks, ripping his eyes from the scene of Maccachin’s (apparently enthusiastic) deflowering and trying to look anywhere but the scene of the action. 

Yuuri cannot believe it: his horse is _fucking_ Victor’s pride and joy, in full view of most of the estate hands, one of the house maids out for a walk, and at least three other interested ponies in the same field.  The horse which _he_ , Yuuri, personally stole in order to get petty revenge on its owner. 

Victor’s horse is being fucked by Yuuri’s stallion.

Victor is going to _kill_ him if he finds out.

“Well, that’s a turn for the books,” drawls the stable hand holding Chihoko.  He sounds very bored, despite the progressive chaos unfolding around the yard.  “That mare’s very receptive.  You’ll get a good foal out of that match, no doubt.  Good conformation, if I say so myself.”

“ _Foal_??!!” Yuuri may have bellowed that last word, he realizes.  Why is the stable hand talking about conformation?  What the fuck does a nice gait have to do with JJ fucking Victor’s horse for Christ’s sake? 

Yuuri jams his foot in the stirrup and flings himself into Chihoko’s saddle, gathering up the reins.  He can’t stay and watch this disaster unfold any longer.  He needs to visit his father’s tenant, have a cup of tea, and maybe not talk to anyone for a couple of days.  He is _not_ going to think about the fact that a murdering highwayman apparently has his address and postal code and the ability to scale walls into his bedroom, where it’s entirely possible Yuuri will be murdered this time for allowing the aforementioned highwayman’s prize horse to get fucked like a cheap doxy in an alleyway.

Yuuri raps his crop smartly across Chihoko’s flank, breaking into a canter immediately.  He manages to keep his seat, ignoring the way the stable hand shakes his head as if to say _rich people_ , and leaves the estate staff behind to deal with the unfolding chaos.

* * *

 

It’s almost noon by the time Yuuri has finished his business and is on the way back to Yutopia.  He’d managed to stop blushing a couple of miles out, and after getting himself under control, had ridden out to Wet Acre Field.  Wet Acre is about as far from the manor house as is possible, bordering the next estate, and it had taken Yuuri over an hour to get out there.  He’d stood around, nodding sagely at his father’s tenant while the man complained, because well, like its name, the field is _wet_ , and it has a tendency to flood at the most inconvenient times. 

Yuuri hopes the tenant got something out of the exchange, because he sure as hell didn’t, other than to be a sounding board.  To say Yuuri is vexed would be putting it mildly.

So, Yuuri’s had more than enough all ready, especially after the disaster that was this morning.  He’s hot and a little sweaty because it’s been unseasonably humid, his horse is lathered up and irritable, so he lets Chihoko have her head and loosens the reins in his hands.  Chihoko shoots off at speed across the wide expanse of fallow field, tossing her head and side-stepping, before Yuuri leans forward, urging the horse into a gallop with his seat, thighs gripping the saddle for balance.  Below him, Chihoko extends her neck and gets a good, solid gait going, until Yuuri and his horse are one, perfectly balanced, perfectly in tune. 

Yuuri lives for moments like this where he can forget everything and just ride like the wind, let the horse go where it pleases.  He nudges the reins just enough for Chihoko to understand where he wants him to go: the gap in the hedge.  There’s a short rise to the gap, and a massive fallen log resting at a slight angle across the gap; probably put there by the estate manager as a natural block to encourage the hedge to grow back around it.  Yuuri grins; the estate staff may have good intentions, but Yuuri wants to fly today.  He leans forward, nudges Chihoko forward, and lets her soar.  Over the log, to the long drop on the other side where the neighbouring field curves down in a slope, and then, with Chihoko getting her feet back under her, they’re off again, hugging the hedgerow so as not to disturb the crops.  They barely break stride through the edge of the copse that surrounds the field, and then they are back in the pasture land that surrounds the manor.  Yuuri takes Chihoko over one fence, then another, before urging himself upright.  Chihoko slows as soon as Yuuri adjusts his seat, and comes to a winded, yet excited stop. 

Yuuri’s still trying to catch his breath, as is Chihoko, so Yuuri turns the horse enough that he can give them a slow walk around to the side of the house.  From there he can cool the horse down, maybe walk her down the long, meandering driveway, and then to the stable block, aka the Scene of This Morning’s Crime.

Yuuri gets to the front of the house and, as he dismounts in the courtyard he’s accosted by his sister of all people. She exits the porch at a fast clip, waving her arms and making shushing gestures all at the same time.  _This is very confusing_ , Yuuri thinks.

“Yuuri!” Mari exclaims, “You have visitors! Oh my god, they are both super hot but the one?!”  She waves her hand rapidly, reminding him a little of Phichit when he’s excited.  “Where did you meet him? _How_ did you meet him?!”

Yuuri frowns.  “I – wait, I have a visitor? I don’t get visitors.  You must be mistaken.”  Phichit often drops by, but he doesn’t count because he practically lives here half the time.  “Who is it?”

“The hot one? Didn’t catch his name.  The other hot one is Christophe Giacometti.  You know, son of Caroline Giacometti down at Blake Hall?”

“Blake Hall?” Yuuri thinks for a moment.  “Oh, that monstrous white mansion south of the Epping Road? I always wondered what that was like inside.”

Mari huffs and puts her hands on her hips.  This is quite an impressive feat considering she’s wearing the currently popular English gown with yards of material in the skirt and probably a bum roll.  The vagaries of female fashion escape Yuuri at the best of times, he’s not afraid to admit it.  “Stop dicking around and go and talk to your guests, Yuuri, before father finds them and starts talking about the upcoming hunting season.”

 _Shit._   Yuuri turns on his heel and strides up the driveway, not wanting to rush.  He hears a happy bark and grins down at Vicchan, who seems intent on following him.  Yuuri switches his riding crop to the other hand and pets Vicchan on the head, cooing nonsensically at the large dog, ruffling its curly fur. 

Yuuri has an odd feeling about these visitors, and he can’t place why he feels a little unsettled.  He’s only met Christophe Giacometti once when he was a kid, when Christophe was also a snot-nosed kid who didn’t care about social norms and how the upper class shouldn’t mingle with those a layer below. Why the man was currently parked outside the front of the house is a complete mystery. 

The mystery becomes horribly clear as soon as Yuuri rounds the side of the house.  Just in front of the porch is his father, talking up a storm, while Giacometti holds his horses reins loosely in one hand.  Next to him stands one of the manor’s stable hands, and next to him is none other than Swift Nik, aka Victor Whatever, laughing charmingly and grinning like a complete imbecile.

Before Yuuri can form a coherent thought, positive or negative, Victor makes a cooing noise – rather like the one Yuuri just made at Vicchan – and bends over, running his hand down his horse’s leg.  The stable hand crouches down as well, but Yuuri’s absolutely not watching that, no.  He’s far more concerned with Victor’s pert backside pointing in Yuuri’s direction, all tight material stretched over his riding breeches.  The ass in question looks quite muscled and is begging to be groped.  Yuuri grips the riding crop in his hand and seriously considers the noise it might make if and when it connected with that incredibly pert arse. 

“Yuuri!”

Yuuri jumps, face flushing a guilty red in the process.  He might have also bitten his lip; its stinging just a little and he can taste the tang of copper in his mouth.  He tries (and fails) to focus on his father, who is waving him over enthusiastically.

“Yuuri, you know Christophe Giacometti, yes?  You’ve met a couple of times as boys.”  His father is grinning happily.

“Um, yes?” Yuuri offers, sketching a short bow.  He is absolutely _not_ watching Victor’s backside out of the corner of his eye, no.

“Yuuri, it’s been so long!” Christophe exclaims.  “I simply must introduce you to my friend, Victor Nikiforov.  He’s visiting from Worcestershire, where his father’s estate is.  He’s vacationing in our little area of the countryside.”

Victor stands up straight and stretches, before fixing Yuuri with a devastatingly charming smile and a bow, which Yuuri ignores.

It’s all suddenly clicking into place, and Yuuri wants to kick himself for being so stupid.  Swift Nik and his sidekick, Black Jack.  The man on the riverbank with Victor, that had been Chris.  Victor had even called him Chris, but of course there’s no way Yuuri could have guessed that the Chris in question was a peer of the realm, one of the Giacometti’s. 

And here, in front of him, stands his erstwhile, annoying suitor, who has a penchant for flirtation and trying to woo Yuuri at gunpoint, for breaking and entering, and highway robbery.  Apparently, also known as Victor Nikiforov.  The Victor _fucking_ Nikiforov whose father owns vast tracks of countryside in Worcestershire, a large estate outside of Bath, and a not-insignificantly sized townhouse in London.

Before Yuuri can ever react, Victor grabs Yuuri’s hand and presses his lips to Yuuri’s knuckles.  Victor’s lips are firm as always, but gentle and soft, and Yuuri feels a hard throb of warmth settle in his gut.  It takes him a few minutes to remember he’s in company, and that having an erection in public would be really impolite and quite scandalous.  He snatches his hand back and backs up a step.

That’s when Yuuri realizes that Vicchan is growling.  Victor looks mildly concerned, but is putting a good face on things, despite the possibility that his flesh might possibly be rendered into dog snacks at any second.  Vicchan definitely remembers who Victor is from the other night.

“Ha,” Chris exclaims, “I’ve never met a dog that didn’t like you, Victor, but this one…” He shakes his head.  “There’s always a first time.”

Yuuri smirks and then taps his riding crop against his boot.  He is very aware of Victor, dragging his gaze down Yuuri’s torso, lingering on his hips and his thighs, and then the riding crop, before glancing back at Vicchan. 

“Vicchan, down,” Yuuri commands.  Vicchan immediately drops to the ground, the growling tapering off – for the moment.  “I’m so sorry.”  Yuuri turns a saccharine smile on Chris and Victor, “I don’t know what’s got into Vicchan; I can’t imagine why he’s growling.  He’s usually only like this when he’s being protective of me or the estate.”

Chris lets out a small cough, glancing knowingly at Yuuri.  “He’s a very good dog,” Chris adds unnecessarily.

“Mr. Giacometti stopped by because Mr. Nikiforov’s horse appears to have gone lame,” Yuuri’s father explains, effectively and unknowingly cutting the tension that was building amongst the group. 

“Ay, milord.”  The stable hand stands back up, brushing down his breeches.  “This ‘ere horse has gone and got a stone in its hoof.  It’ll need to be rested.  Best lend this kind gent a horse in return until we can walk this one back to the Giacometti estate.”

“Perfect!” Victor says gleefully.  He watches Yuuri like a hawk, smile plastered on his face, while he hands the reins off to the stable hand.  He looks just off over Yuuri’s shoulder.  “I’ll borrow that one in the field there.” 

Yuuri swings his gaze around slowly, looking to where Victor is pointing.  Maccachin is trotting happily around the field, looking about as smug as anyone (man or animal), who’s just had a good dicking.

“Um,” says the stable hand hesitantly, giving Yuuri the side eye.

“That’s fine!” Yuuri exclaims, because he can suddenly see an end to all his problems.  One; Victor gets his damn horse back.  Two; Yuuri doesn’t have to use his words to awkwardly explain why his stallion decided to marathon-fuck Victor’s horse.  Three; Victor won’t be jumping through Yuuri’s window anytime soon and threatening to kill him for varied reasons.

(Okay, so maybe he is sort of a _little_ disappointed about number three, because Victor does still have his pistol and his ring.  But one problem at a time, Yuuri thinks.)

“We will absolutely lend you that horse,” Yuuri adds, just for emphasis.  “Please do avail yourself of all that the stable has to offer.”

“Oh, I’m going to hold you to that,” Victor says with a wink that manages to come across as positively X-rated. 

Yuuri is pretty sure that there was at least one double-entendre in that statement, possibly two.  He raps his crop smartly against his riding boot and is pleased when Victor and Chris both startle.  Yuuri can sense a conspiracy a mile off and has no doubt that Victor’s temporary horse suddenly developing a limp mid-ride and just outside the Katsuki estate is highly suspicious.

“I’ll walk the horse round,” says the stable hand, clucking to Victor’s mount as he leads the horse away. 

“Yuuri, why don’t you walk Mr. Nikiforov to the stables?”

Yuuri stares at his father, and then back at Victor and Chris.  He nods.  “This way then, Mr. Nikiforov.”

“Oh, call me Victor, I insist.” 

Victor flashes another award-winning smile, and despite his suspicions Yuuri can’t back out without appearing unreasonable.  Besides, it wouldn’t be good manners, and his father would lose face if Yuuri was rude.  Yuuri let’s out an internal sigh.  “Could you look after Vicchan, please?” he asks, and his father nods.

With a small smile for Chris, Yuuri gestures at Victor to lead the way around the side of the manor house.  They walk in silence for a moment.  Yuuri can tell Victor wants to say something, no doubt inane, hoping to rile Yuuri up.  Yuuri refuses to jump on the bait, no matter what nonsense comes out of Victor’s mouth. 

They get as far as the parterre garden before Victor verbally pounces.  “I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you on the size of your cock.  It’s rather impressive,” Victor says nonchalantly.

“My _what_?!” Yuuri stumbles slightly on the gravel path, and Victor takes the opportunity to slip his arm around Yuuri’s waist.

“Your cock. The weathervane on your stable roof; it’s quite impressive,” Victor continues, like he hasn’t just broken about eighteen rules of social engagement with that comment alone.  “Copper, I believe?”

“Yes,” Yuuri croaks, face flushing as he tries to untangle himself from Victor’s arm.  “It’s… copper.”

“I bet it flashes beautifully in the sun.”

Yuuri, face flaming with embarrassment and frustrated... _something_ , maybe desire, absolutely refuses to look to the side, where he knows his sister is standing at the window, making faces and pretending to fan herself with a hand.  Yuuri is going to expire any moment now through blood loss to the brain; he can feel it. 

Yuuri stops abruptly when they reach the stable courtyard.  Maccachin, remarkably unbothered by all the proceedings, is being tacked up in the yard. Victor walks over to nuzzle into her neck, and Maccachin whickers happily upon seeing her owner.  For a moment, Yuuri watches.  He finds it incredibly weird to try to marry the two sides of Victor he has seen: the idiot waffling away to his favourite horse, the one that bathes in the river and gets his horse stolen, falls out of windows and down trellises, with the dangerous highwayman that can hold an entire coach at gunpoint with his charm and will alone.  The highwayman that, the press says, has murdered many a man on the roadside, just for his money. 

Yuuri’s always known the press blow things out of proportion; he has a scrapbook full of Swift Nik articles to prove it.  But he still can’t stop thinking about the memory of Nik, pressing him against the wheel of the carriage, pistol at his neck, kissing him senseless.  It’s still one of the hottest things Yuuri’s ever experienced, although he doesn’t really have much to go by, not unless you count Victor showing up in Yuuri’s bedroom the other night.  That had also been… sexy.  Yuuri suspects he’s the type of adrenaline junkie who gets off on danger.  It could be a problem.    

It takes Yuuri a second to realize he’s been standing there daydreaming long enough for Maccachin to be tacked up, and Victor is getting ready to leave.  Yuuri watches in a daze as Victor comes toward him, leading his horse, and takes Yuuri’s free hand in his own.

“Thank you for the horse,” Victor says with a knowing smirk.

Yuuri mentally gives himself a shake.  He clears his throat. “You still owe me my possessions,” he reminds Victor.

“How could I forget? We’ll just have to meet again, maybe at Christophe’s summer ball? Your father tells me your family will attend?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri hedges.  He knows damn well he’ll have to attend now, if they’ve been invited specifically by Christophe Giacometti.  “Wait,” Yuuri says, trying to take his hand back, and failing.  Victor has a firm grip, is stroking his thumb over Yuuri’s knuckles in a not unpleasant way.  “Wait – you came here to get your horse back and also so that Chris could invite us personally to the ball, correct?  This is clearly not your type of plan, Mr. _Nikiforov_.”

“And why is that?” Victor steps closer, until he’s very much in Yuuri’s space, breath ghosting over the shell of Yuuri’s ear.  His voice has dropped a register; deliciously rough in tone.  “Tell me why you think it’s not my idea, Yuuri.”

Yuuri, for his part, doesn’t step away, although part of him wants to.  The other part of him, the part that seeks the danger, is eager to hear more.  He can feel that frisson of fear/desire that Swift Nik brings out in him surfacing, threatening to do stupid things to get Nik’s attention again. 

“Why do I think it’s not your idea?” Yuuri muses quietly.  He feels Victor lean closer to catch his words.  “Because this plan actually succeeded.”

Yuuri takes a step back, a triumphant smirk on his face as Victor jerks back, as if stung.  “Yuuri, you wound me!” Victor says dramatically. 

“I speak only as I find,” Yuuri says, trying to keep a straight face.  Still, despite the theatrics, Yuuri does allow Victor to kiss his hand, even if the bastard lingers far longer than necessary at the task.  Victor looks up with a flirty grin and then turns Yuuri’s hand over, kissing along the delicate and sensitive skin of Yuuri’s wrist, making Yuuri shudder deliciously.  After a moment, Yuuri firmly pulls back before his traitorous brain decides its okay to let Victor take as many liberties as he wants.

“I’ll see you at the ball, then,” Victor says, mounting his horse.  “Save me the first dance, sweetheart.”

Before Yuuri can object to either the pet name or the request for a dance, Victor is off at a smart trot down the driveway and out of earshot.

Yuuri’s not sure who actually won this round, but he suspects he has to give points to Victor for winning on a technicality. 

Clearly, Yuuri is going to have come up with a better plan just in time for the ball.

 


	6. Ballroom Blitz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor's pants are too tight for comfort, and Yuuri finally gets to attend the summer ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, did you think I'd forgotten about this? :D But seriously, some stuff went down health-wise and family-wise, and I sort of took an unplanned hiatus. Please be gentle with me since this is the first thing I've written since last September.

Yuuri is, as usual, a social disaster. His hair is still damp from the bath, he can’t find his favourite watch fob and chain, and he’s running late for the ball – so late in fact, that the rest of the family has already gone on ahead in the larger carriage, leaving him to fend for himself in the smaller.

“Is this the one you are looking for, my lord?”

Yuuri glances down to the silver chain and watch that Minami holds out.  “Oh thank god.  I thought I’d lost it,” Yuuri replies, swiping it from his manservant’s hands and attaching to the waistband of his breeches before Minami can duck in and get handsy.  The only person Yuuri wants to get handsy with is Victor fucking Nikiforov, a.k.a. You Bastard, a.k.a. Swift Nik the Highwayman, and that’s never going to happen because Yuuri is going to murder him first for continuing to embarrass Yuuri in public, and for stealing his things on at least two separate occasions.  Not to mention breaking into Yuuri’s bedroom because apparently the coach dogs were after him.

Minami manages to somehow completely ignore Yuuri’s inner crisis of thirst, and instead hands him his silk coat jacket and adjusts the way it sits over his shoulders.  Now, Yuuri can finally get a good look in the mirror.  He’s surprised to find it’s… not bad.  He brushes a few wayward strands of hair away from his forehead, and he has to admit he cuts a fine figure in his new evening suit.  The coat is long, calf length at the back, and a deep blue with fine silver and black embroidery along the edges, collars and cuffs.  The breeches are the same dark blue, but the waistcoat beneath the coat is a pale blue silk, covered with embroidered silver flowers.  He’s wearing a new pair of black shoes, and black stockings with silver embroidery on the ankles to match those on his waistcoat. 

“Um,” Yuuri says hesitantly at the mirror.  He can see Minami just behind him, cheekbones dusted bright red, and he’s biting his lip, fingers curled into fists.

“Yes, my lord?” Minami raises an eyebrow.  Yuuri notes that Minami is almost vibrating, possibly with excitement, but is doing his best since Yuuri asked him to tone down the fanboying a little.

“Fine, you can come in the carriage.”  Yuuri holds up a finger, and Minami stills for a short moment.  “No screaming, defending my honor, or doing anything other than sitting there and behaving, understood?  We are not having a repeat of the Swift Nik Incident,” Yuuri adds to emphasize his point.  When Swift Nik had held up their carriage in Epping, Minami had almost got himself shot in the head and Yuuri had almost lost his virginity.  It was a night to remember for everyone involved.

Minami manages to keep things to a short burst of noise that sounds rather like a dying porpoise, and then he rushes off to call for the carriage.  Yuuri gives himself a final glance over in the mirror.  If Victor Nikiforov is there, he’ll probably be far too busy to want to chat with Yuuri, despite his insistence the other day of Yuuri keeping his dance card open for the first with Victor.  Still, Yuuri is determined to have fun.  Phichit will be there, as will a lot of the local set.  There’ll be lots of food, some good dancing, and the bonus of getting to admire the outrageous décor at Blake Hall, along with the company of the Giacomettis. 

Before he leaves, Yuuri pulls out his remaining pistol from its wooden case, and pockets it.   One can never be too careful when travelling at night through the countryside, after all.

 

* * *

 

Dusk has set when the carriage passes through Fyfield – about three miles from the Giacometti country estate – and now Yuuri is truly late for the party.  He’s probably missed dinner, and his mother is going to be disappointed.  There’s nothing worse than seeing his mother socially disappointed, and Yuuri winces at the thought. 

The driver calls softly to the four horses in front as they turn down a winding lane.  A summer breeze rustles the leaves, and across from him, Minami lets out a bored sigh as he glances out of the window.

“Stand and deliver!” calls a voice from the front of the carriage.

“Oh, fuck off, _really_?” Yuuri mutters, sitting up straight.  His first thought that this is Swift Nik, playing some stupid joke on him, but then it occurs to him that he would be at the party, probably at the side of his friend Chris, who will be hosting the event along with his mother, the Countess.

This only means one thing. _Another_ highwayman is operating on Nik’s turf, and if Nik finds out it’s no doubt going to be damaged bollocks all around for some people.

The carriage lurches to a halt and Yuuri slides to the edge of the seat, and, in a weird repeat of the first time this happened, he gestures to Minami to stay put.  This time, Yuuri pulls out his pistol, because he’s damned well not going to give anything up this time to some cutthroat thief, whether he’s good with his tongue or not.

The sound of horses’ hooves grow louder as the cloaked and masked figure pulls up next to the carriage window.  Yuuri finds his ire is rising rapidly, because this is utter bullshit.  He’s unsure how exactly he’s managed to turn into a magnet for random highwaymen, but the fact of the matter is that he is late to a party, a party whereby if he plays his cards right, eventually he’s going to find why a good dicking can be fun and everyone talks about it so much.  As it stands right now, he’s going to remain an angry, pissed off virgin for the rest of his life, and enough is enough.  No _mere_ highwayman is going to stand in the way of Yuuri’s future marital dicking, thank you very much.

So, now Yuuri is _pissed_ , and when he’s pissed, well… he realizes he’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie, and he’s more than aware now of what to do in a situation like this.  And he’s feeling a lot petty, too, which is why when the highwayman says something, Yuuri has made sure the window of the carriage is shut so the sound is muffled and he can’t hear what the man is saying. 

The highwayman waits a moment, and then knocks on the window to get Yuuri’s attention when Yuuri does not reply.  Yuuri does Not Have Time for This Shit. He can feel his temper rising, because he’s not only being inconvenienced, he’s also wearing his best suit which is probably going to get dirty, and now he’s missing both dinner, and the other rich and entitled assholes at the party are probably going to get to the now-legendary chocolate fountain the Giacomettis put on every year before Yuuri gets to it.

Minami’s eyes are wide as he stares at Yuuri, and then jerks his head toward the window in a silent question.  Yuuri fumbles on the seat next to himself until he finds the pistol, which he cocks, nodding back.  Then he reaches out and lets the window drop, almost taking off the highwayman’s fingers in the process and partially spooking his horse.  The man manages to get control of his horse, and then leans perilously close to the open window.  The man clearly has no sense of self-preservation, which Yuuri would have thought was a vital survival skill to have in this line of work.

“Ahahaha, it’s a good job you’re pretty, otherwise I’d have blown your head off just now for pulling a stunt like that,” the highwayman says chattily.  He waves his pistol vaguely at Yuuri.  “I’m the Silver Blade and I’ll be taking your money and your gems this evening in exchange for your life.”  He waggles the barrel of the gun, like it’s supposed to be threatening, and Yuuri’s patience degrades a further ten points.  His eyebrow starts to twitch.

“Can I share something with you?” Yuuri says in a sickly sweet voice, crooking his finger invitingly towards the idiot in front of him.  Yuuri ignores Minami’s whispered ‘ _uh oh_ ’ from the corner.

“Anything for you, pretty,” the man replies with a leer and a wink.

At the same time the man leans in, Yuuri pulls the pistol, jamming it in the highwayman’s face and then when the barrel connects with the idiot’s nose, kicks open the door of the carriage. 

Then all hell breaks loose.

* * *

 

“Chris, I just don’t think I take this sort of treatment any longer!” Victor whines dramatically, slouching against the wall. He crosses his feet at the ankles and then his arms.  “How can I propose if he’s not here? He’s missed dinner!”

“Still no sign of Beautiful Boy then?” Chris asks, sipping a glass of sherry.  He passes a glass to Victor, and Victor sips at it delicately until he decides he doesn’t mind the taste and slings back the rest in one go.

“No – his family are here, and I spoke with Mr. Katsuki earlier and he said Yuuri would be along shortly.”

Chris makes a humming noise that could indicate disappointment or just general sympathy toward Victor.  “Something must have delayed him.  I’m sure he won’t want to miss out on a dance with you.”

Victor laughs.  “You are full of shit, Chris. Anyway, I got this suit specifically to woo the divine Mr. Katsuki with, and I will be horribly disappointed if he’s not here to admire me in it.”

Chris lets his gaze drift languidly down Victor’s form and then back up again, meeting his eyes.  “Victor, if those silk breeches were any tighter… darling, you have a marvelous case of camel toe.  Maybe you should loosen your pants?”

“I will absolutely not,” Victor declares.  “Do you know how hard I had to work to convince your tailor that I wanted my breeches this tight?  Your man does like to err on the side of caution.”

“He likes to err on the side of actually being able to have his client sit down without splitting his pants,” Chris drawls.  “Have you sat down yet, Victor?”

“Of course not. I –“

Victor’s interrupted by a sudden commotion near what appears to be the front reception hall.  He can see a couple of ladies rushing toward the front doors, followed by their friends.  This is followed by what sounds remarkably like… group squealing. Wait - _squealing_? What the hell?

“I’d better go and find out what’s happening,” Chris says, passing his drink over to Victor.  “Mother will never forgive me if I don’t step in since I’m supposed to be hosting this damn thing.”

“Should I come with you?” Victor deposits both glasses on a side table and follows Chris toward the commotion. 

The reception hall is bursting with fluttering females, all talking a mile a minute and gesturing.  Chris pushes (politely) through the loose circle the women have made and Victor follows, only to stop dead in his tracks when he spots Beautiful Boy standing there at the top of the steps, slightly dishevelled, his clothes askew, and wearing a wild expression somewhere between determined and impressively angry.  Victor feels a frisson of desire dance down his spine, making his stomach twist pleasantly.

Yuuri locks eyes with Victor, and Victor is pinned in place, watching as Yuuri hands off his pistol to a waiting footman.  His expression is intense; it never wavers, and it never leaves Victor’s.  In the background, two of Chris’ burly footmen wrestle what looks like a half-dead, bleeding man from the rear of Yuuri’s coach, which has been pulled up right outside the front door.

Yuuri licks his lips, gaze dropping to Victor’s mouth, sliding back up to meet his eyes.

Victor feels like prey; like Yuuri might have him for his next meal, and Victor has never, ever, felt like this before.  He wants to be devoured, totally and utterly, by this man. He doesn’t care if his Beautiful Boy wants to consume him whole, right now, in the front reception room in front of everyone.  In fact, he would welcome the show of ownership, he thinks.

The man behind Yuuri struggles as he regains consciousness, and he starts to shout incoherently about unwelcome surprises and people interrupting robberies.  One of the woman near Chris screams “ _Oh my god_ , that’s the Silver Blade he’s captured!” 

Another woman faints, directly at Victor’s feet, but he steps over her and rushes toward Yuuri, appropriate behaviour be damned.  He takes hold of Yuuri’s hand, and that seems to break the spell.  Yuuri blinks up at Victor, eyes going wide as he seems to take in the entire situation.

“Victor,” Yuuri breathes huskily, and then seems to gather himself a little – although he does push himself into the circle of Victor’s arms a little. 

Victor is about to ask what the hell happened when another man pushes his way over, breaking at least three rules of polite introduction by hurriedly introducing himself as Phichit Chulanont, Yuuri’s best friend.  He takes one look at Yuuri, then at the unfolding scene of further violence in the courtyard as the Silver Blade makes an abortive but useless attempt at freedom, and then back at Yuuri again. 

Phichit raises a very on-point sculpted eyebrow and hollers at one of the servants, “Someone get this man a hot chocolate from the fountain, stat!”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Yuuri.  Deep breath in, annnnnnnd out.  That’s it.”

Yuuri stares at the very expensive rug between his feet and tries to breathe deeply along with Phichit’s instructions.  After the altercation in the hall, Phichit had whisked Yuuri off to one of the smaller withdrawing rooms with Chris’s help, and now Yuuri is currently perched on what must be a very expensive sofa, head held inelegantly between his knees, and trying to control his spiralling anxiety before it gets out of hand. 

After a few moments, Yuuri tentatively raises his head, to be greeted by not just Phichit, but Chris and Victor, all standing in a semi-circle around him, staring at him wide-eyed.  Slowly, Victor holds out a crystal glass, which appears to be filled with –

“ _Ohmygod_ , chocolate,” Yuuri breathes throatily and with longing, tugging the glass from Victor’s unresisting hand and taking a large swallow.  Yuuri can’t help himself; he makes a little noise of pleasure in the back of his throat, and is pleased to note how Victor flushes a delicate pink.

“How are you feeling?” Chris asks.  “Can I get you something to eat? A change of clothes?”

Yuuri shakes his head and finishes off the hot chocolate, licking his lips to chase the remaining drops.  “Thank you, no.  I think I’ll be okay now.”

“So, what exactly the hell happened to you?” Phichit says.  “One minute you’re running late – according to your mother – and the next you show up all caveman-like dragging a wounded criminal behind you and staring everyone down like an alpha dog trying to stake a claim.  Your sexual market value is going to _skyrocket_ , Yuuri, you have no idea.” 

“My sexual _what_?” Yuuri asks, shaking his head.

Chris clears his throat; it might have been a well-hidden laugh, Yuuri’s not sure.  “Sexual market value.  The scale whereby possibility of scoring a well-endowed piece of ass is predicted and compared against the odds of lesser individuals in your social circle.”  Victor raises an eyebrow at Chris in askance.  “I mean, just a guess, you know how it is,” Chris mutters, glancing at a manicured fingernail far too casually to deceive anyone.

“Yuuri, tell me what happened.”  Victor sits down next to Yuuri, taking hold of his hand. Yuuri frowns; Victor looks pained for a moment, as though he’s strained something vital in his nether areas.  Yuuri hopes not; one day he has plans for Victor’s nether regions and those plans don’t include sitting out the sex part.

“Victor, are you okay?” Yuuri asks, when Victor seems to pause for a moment, his eyebrow twitching. 

This time Chris does snort.  “I’m fine, thank you,” Victor says. “I’m sure it’ll pass; just a little twinge.  So, fill us in on the gory details.  I think we are all horribly curious as to how you ended up arresting the Silver Blade.  I know I am.”

Yuuri takes a breath, letting it out slowly as he tries to organize his thoughts and put it in some kind of order that makes more sense than just generalized screaming in his head, which what he was pretty much doing the entire time the thing was going down. 

“Well, we were about a mile from here and the Silver Blade – which I’ve always thought was a ridiculous name, I mean, it’s really got nothing on ‘ _Swift Nik’_ does it –“ Yuuri takes a deep breath and pauses, suddenly noting the three very interested individuals before him that have just been first-hand witnesses to his fanboying.  Yuuri tries to force down a blush of embarrassment, especially since the object of his fanboying is currently holding his hand, no more than four inches away.  Yuuri clears his throat, but doesn’t remove his hand from Victor’s. “Anyway, so I was pissed off, because I’m fed up of being held at gunpoint repeatedly, so I refused to acknowledge the bastard.  He got annoyed, which is a mistake of Darwinian proportions if you ask me – never get annoyed during a holdup, it’s a death wish – “

“Yuuri, deep breaths, good lord,” Phichit adds, rubbing his shoulder sympathetically.

“Right.  Could I get a glass of wine, please?” Yuuri asks Chris.  “If you don’t mind?”

“Anything for Victor’s Beautiful –“

“I will gut anyone who uses that phrase again in front of me,” Yuuri deadpans, and then smiles sweetly when Chris hands him a glass of Madeira.

“Wow, so forceful,” Victor gasps, and leans closer to Yuuri.

Yuuri can’t stop gazing into the blue depths of Victor’s eyes for the moment. They are like deep pools of water, blue like the shallows of the Mediterranean.  Yuuri wants to drown in them.  “Where was I?” he says hoarsely.  His throat is parched; he’s thirsty as fuck, maybe not just from lack of liquid intake.  He takes a large swig of the wine and holds out his hand for another, which Chris supplies.  He continues, “So, anyway, the guy leans in the window of the carriage and I pull my pistol out and at the same time kick open the door.  It was just enough to startle his horse – not very well trained – “ Yuuri raises an eyebrow at Victor, as if to acknowledge that Maccachin is – “and then I leapt out of the carriage and grabbed the guy’s stirrup leather and yanked.  His horse got antsy and backed up enough that it slipped in the mud at the edge of the ditch, and the Silver Blade fell off the back of his horse.  When he crawled out of the ditch, I shot him in the leg and then Minami, our coachman and I restrained him and tied him to the luggage rack on the back, and thusly brought him here, since I assumed you would have a cellar or something you could keep him in until the magistrate arrived.” 

Yuuri sips his wine and looks from Phichit, to Chris, and then to Victor.  All three are sitting there, mouths open, blinking at Yuuri with raised eyebrows and expressions ranging from outright skepticism to incredulous disbelief.

“You are shitting me, Katsuki,” Phichit breathes in awe. “I love you and I’m going to propose marriage.”

“Totally not shitting you, Chulanont, and ew, we are best friends.  I’ve seen you eat a worm on a dare, so no, I’m not going to marry you.”  He grins; he knows it’s a bit of a shit eating grin, but he’s starting to feel a little lightheaded from the alcohol so he’s doesn’t really give a rats arse.  “The whole thing is true,” Yuuri says, smirking at Victor, who now looks rather like he’s assimilating the information Yuuri has provided so that the same thing never happens to him during a holdup.

Chris stands up and holds out a hand to Yuuri.  “Well, I don’t know about everyone else in the room,” he says, grinning at Victor knowingly, “but I’m turned the fuck on.  Let’s get out there and get you mingling, Mr. Katsuki.  It would be highly remiss of me not to share the man of the evening with the rest of my guests at this point.  Coming Victor?”

“Oh, I’m coming,” Victor mutters enigmatically, standing up and brushing down his breeches.  “Let’s mingle.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the evening passes quickly for Victor, despite his pants being unbearably tight and possibly cutting off his circulation, but this is a small consolation considering he has a hot bundle in his arms – a man who in turns fascinates him, infuriates him, and makes him so god damn horny he can’t think properly.  Yuuri is getting shitfaced; running off adrenaline no doubt, quite a lot of Chris’s mother’s good Madeira wine, and zero food intake, coupled with a verbal sparring match with some idiot called James-John something-or-other.  All in all, it’s only a matter of time before the Man of the Evening succumbs to the events of his rather taxing day, and passes out in Victor’s arms as soon as the dancing starts.

Victor can’t find it in himself to be disappointed, however.  This evening has cemented a single fact, one that in turns excites Victor and terrifies him.  Because once he’s got his shit together, he’s going to ride over to Yutopia and ask Yuuri to marry him.

What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During some research I did on the Old Bailey's website, I did actually find a case of a man who was convicted of highway robbery because he fell off his horse while holding up a carriage, and then he fell in the ditch, just like the Silver Blade did here. The occupants of the carriage hopped out while he was flailing in the ditch, and arrested him at gunpoint (probably with his own pistol). I couldn't make this shit up if I tried, seriously. <3


End file.
